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LIBRARY of CONieR?ss| 
Two CoDles RoceivecJ ^ 

JUL 13 i90r j 
/;Oopwur)!t Entry 1 
/'3.t9in\ 

^uss/A. xxc., No, I 
/?/ 7 ^ 0 \ 

COPY b. f 




Copyright, 1907, 

By Thomas Y. Cboweix & Co. 


CONTENTS 


Why the Swaleow Wears a Forked Tail . . 1 

Why the Robin Wears a Red Breast . . .13 

Why the Woodpecker Goes a Tapping . . 26 

Why the Owe Can’t See in the Sun ... 38 

Why the Peacock Wears Eyes on his Taie . 51 

Why th:i^ Crow’s Feathers are Beack ... 63 

How THE Mocking Bird got his Name . . .74 

> 

How THE Parrot Came to Wear a Hooked 

Beak 85 

^Why the Jackdaw Hides Everything Bright. 100 







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ILLUSTRATIONS 


I Have Forgotten Where I Hid it ” . Frontispiece ^ 

PAGE 

The Serpent Caught only the Tip of Her 


Tail 12 ^ 

The Robin Snatched the Milk-White Pearl 20*^ 

Ho, HO ! THE King’s Messenger Asleep ! ” . 32 

Hoo-oo ! What a Silly Tale ! ” . . . .42 

The Peacock Followed the Moon’s Advice . 58 

“ Just Look at Yourself ! ” 70 

The Nameless Brown Bird Flew out From 

THE Leaves 82 

‘‘Stop Pinching!” Hissed the Serpent . . 94 



FABLES IN FEATHERS 


WHY THE SWALLOW WEARS A 
FORKED TAIL 

O NCE upon a time in the long, long ago 
when the old, old world was a very 
young world indeed, there lived a King who 
ruled over all the earth. And the name of the 
King was Solomon. 

The people who lived in the long ago, and the 
birds and the breeze and the trees, said that this 
great King was a magician, because to him the 
meaning of all the languages which his subjects 
used was clear. When the bees droned lazily, 
and the birds trilled, and the little gray squirrel 
called to his mate, the wise King knew what 
they were saying quite as weU as they did them- 
selves. 

And so it was with all living things. Surely 
the great King Solomon was indeed a magician, 
1 


2 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


else how could he ever have understood all this 
humming and buzzing and droning? 

Now in the days of the long, long ago when 
the old, old world was so very young, the wise 
King sat on his throne of gold of a wondrous 
carven form, on the crest of the moss-grown 
bank that went rolling down — down — down — 

Below a silver stream, purling and swirling 
along on its way to the sea, flashed tiny dia- 
mond-like sprays in the sunlight as it rippled 
over the smooth, white pebbles gleaming on the 
golden sand. 

The wise King held a wand of gold, ball- 
tipped, casting a magic shaft of light, and his 
golden crown rested upon his long, fair curls 
that shimmered more golden in the Sun than 
throne, or crown, or wand. 

At his feet the grass grew, emerald-hued, a 
velvety circle, ringed within pearl-petalled dais- 
ies that proudly preened their hearts of gold be- 
fore this golden King. 

And in the days of the long ago the birds and 
the bees and their brother Man gathered without 
the grass-grown court. The insects were there, 
even the tiny mosquito — and in those days when 
the world was young the mosquito was quite 


THE SWALLOW’S FORKED TAIL 3 


the tiniest creature of all — and each one of the 
King’s subjeets. The little, crawly creatures 
came, too, to the wise King’s court; the big, 
crawly creatures also, for there by the side of 
the carven throne coiled a gleaming Serpent, 
gorgeous with silver rings around his slim, pol- 
ished, black body. 

And as in those days there were not one-half, 
nor one-quarter, nor even one-tenth as many liv- 
ing creatures as there are now, each found his 
place at the great King’s court, where Solomon 
gave hearing to every plaint; and in his wisdom 
spoke what should be done for one and all. 

Thus it came to pass when the hedgerows 
were white with blossoming thorn, Man entered 
within the daisy ring, and bowed before the 
King. 

Solomon waved his wand of gold. “Speak,” 
he said, “and tell me your need.” 

“Lord,” cried this brother of all living things, 
and of the King as well, “protect me from the 
Serpent. Hidden beneath bush and shrub, 
lurking in the cool forest depths, stealing 
through primrose-dotted meadows, he wars upon 
me, and sates his thirst with my innocent 
blood.” 


4 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


“Man,” replied Solomon gravely, “the Ser- 
pent was my early guide. To him I owe the 
milk-white Pearl of Wisdom I wear upon my 
breast. Grateful for the knowledge thus be- 
stowed I gave him what he ehose to feast upon.” 

The wise King paused and glaneed mourn- 
fully at the suppliant Man, waiting within the 
grass-grown court. Then a frown darkened his 
kingly brow, and he proudly drew himself up. 

“Yet — ” he exclaimed, “I am the King! 
Therefore I will not deny your plea. But as a 
just and honorable lord I must find a dainty as 
toothsome as even your succulent blood for the 
Serpent.” 

Again the wise King paused and thought- 
fully glanced about. A smile chased the frown 
from his brow at last, and he waved his wand 
till the sun-motes danced in the shaft of light 
that streamed from its golden ball in dazzling 
rays. 

“This is my command,” the wise King cried. 
“The tiniest creature of all my subjects, the 
Mosquito, shall go forth into the world for a 
year, and taste of the blood of all living things. 
The most delicious, though it be even yours, oh 
Man, shall be the Serpent’s portion. And you. 


THE SWALLOW’S FORKED TAIL 5 


my people, gather here in a year from this day, 
that I may tell you of the result.” 

Solomon rose from his throne of gold, dis- 
missing his court with a dignified wave of his 
magic wand. Then down from his throne the 
wise King stepped, past the wind-tossed daisies, 
and threaded his way through woodland and dell 
to his palace of gold sheltered behind tall pome- 
granates, and clustering roses, in the forest 
depths. 

The hours sped along, the days lengthened 
into weeks, the weeks to months. The year had 
come, had gone. Pricking here, stabbing there, 
tasting everywhere, the little mosquito had faith- 
fully fulfilled his allotted task. 

He had fluttered through the dense leaves of 
the jungle to do the King’s bidding on lion and 
tiger, although their fierce snarling had set his 
tiny heart a-throb with fear. He had crept 
through the matted tangle of fur that kept the 
bear so warm. Even the elephant’s thick hide 
had felt his sting. Horse, dog, cow, eagle and 
nightingale, he had tested. Once flying boldly 
up the chimney of Man’s dwelling he had 
chanced upon a swallow’s nest. Warm and 
sheltered she lived there and fed on the crumbs 


6 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


her benefactor scattered for her in daily profu- 
sion upon his hearth. 

When the primrose blossomed again by 
meadow and field, the mosquito came drumming 
gaily along on his way back to Solomon’s court 
when who should he spy but this very same swal- 
low. 

“Well met, Dame Swallow,” he hailed her, 
steadying himself on the soft spring breeze by 
a skillful fiutter of his left wing. 

“Well met. Friend Mosquito,” she replied 
gracefully circling forward to greet him, “have 
you accomplished your task?” 

“Ah! my dear, my zeal has never flagged. 
You behold before you the gastronomical mar- 
vel of all creation.” The little mosquito was so 
puff ed with pride at his own importance he never 
once stumbled over the long words which were 
bigger far than his whole body. 

“Indeed!” exclaimed the swallow, “Then tell 
me pray, whose blood do you prefer?” 

The mosquito paused for an instant to draw 
a deep breath, then he said: “My dear, for 
lovely blood none can compare with man !” 

“With whom?” cried the swallow, daintily 
flirting her feathery puffball wings, “I pray 


THE SWALLOW’S FORKED TAIL 7 


you, Friend Mosquito, why speak so low? I 
could not catch the name.” 

The mosquito, meaning to speak out, oh, so 
loud! like a very foolish little insect opened his 
mouth wide, wide ! Quick as a flash the swallow 
darted forward and pulled out his wicked little 
tongue. 

The mosquito was dreadfully hurt and 
grieved at the swallow’s attack. He quite made 
up his mind not to speak to her again. So he 
fluttered otf, with the little bird closely follow- 
ing, and silently winged his way to the grass- 
grown court by the side of the silvery brook. 

The Sun shone down on the birds and the bees 
and their brother Man in the early morn. Sol- 
omon sat on his golden throne, with his magic 
wand in his hand. His crown of gold rested 
upon his long, fair curls with their ruddy 
gleam, more golden far than throne or crown or 
wand. 

And, as on that day one year before, the Ser- 
pent coiled dark and shining beside the wise 
King. Only the daisies had grown taller, their 
hearts gleaming brightly as the sunbeams whis- 
pered softly to them. 

The mosquito darted close to the great King’s 


8 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


throne, whirling up and down. Solomon waved 
his wand of gold and the sun-motes swarmed in 
the warm, strong light that fell from its magic 
ball. 

“Welcome Mosquito,” spoke the wise King. 
“Your task is done on the very morn I bade you 
return. That is well. Now tell me quick, 
whose blood is best in all my realm?” 

“Oua! Oua!” chirped the mosquito gaily, stay- 
ing his whirl at the King’s words. 

Solomon stared in amaze at the tiny thing. 
Here was a sound he could not understand, the 
only one in the whole wide world. 

“What is the meaning of that word?” asked 
the puzzled King. “Speak louder, little mos- 
quito, and see that the words come distinctly this 
time.” 

“Oua! Oua!” stammered the little mosquito 
again, very much astonished himself at the queer 
noise he was making. 

A grim frown settled on the wise King’s brow. 
He had a great respect for himself, and being 
the King he commanded that all his subjects 
should have as well. His anger grew at the 
thought that the little mosquito was mocking 
him. 


THE SWALLOW’S FORKED TAIL 9 


“Have a care, stammerer,” he cried, “what 
ails your mocking tongue?” 

The swallow came circling forward past the 
gleaming daisies, to the great King’s feet. 

“Lord,” she murmured in tones as soft as the 
Moon’s silver sheen on hroad oak leaves, “he 
really is not to hlame. Yesterday, as we were 
flying along, suddenly — he lost his tongue.” 

“Then why does he try to speak?” rustled the 
breeze. 

“And how shall we know the riddle’s answer?” 
questioned the brook. 

“We must still v^ait a year, and send forth 
another into the world on the selfsame quest,” 
the wise King said. 

“But no one else has such a delicate probe, we 
cannot be sure he has judged quite right,” pro- 
tested the frog. 

“Peace,” commanded Solomon, “if I say he 
is right that must suffice. Now who shall I 
send — ” 

“Nay, Lord,” interrupted the swallow, “there 
is no need. Fortunately Friend Mosquito had 
already taken me into his confldence. I know 
the secret of his choice. Shall I speak for 
him?” 


10 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


The wise King smiled with relief and nodded 
to the fluttering bird. “Surely, since it seems 
he can’t speak for himself,” he replied. “Whose 
blood then has best pleased his dainty palate?” 

The swallow paused and glanced around. 
Without the circle of gleaming hearts the birds 
and bees and their brother Man gazed anxiously 
at her, each dreading his doom. Only the frog 
sneered scornfully at them. 

“There are times,” he scoffed, “when it’s 
pleasant to know that either you have no blood 
at all, or ’tis very cold, like mine.” 

“Lord,” exclaimed the swallow at the words, 
“Friend Mosquito mightily praised — the 
Frog’s.” 

The birds, the bees, the squirrel, the breeze, 
and even the King stared in speechless amaze, all 
save the mosquito. He too stared speechlessly, 
but only because he had no tongue with which 
he could speak. In a terrible rage he darted 
wildly about, rolling his eyes furiously, and flap- 
ping his wings like a mad thing. But what 
could he do? There wasn’t a word he could say. 

At last Solomon recovered his breath and for- 
got his surprise. He shook his wand reprov- 
ingly at the tiny mosquito whose antics disturbed 


THE SWALLOW’S FORKED TAIL 11 


him not a little. Then he glanced down at the 
Serpent coiled dark and shining beside his gol- 
den throne, and the wise King smiled gently, 
very gently. 

“Friend Serpent,” spoke the great King, “no 
longer shall you feast upon Man, for his blood 
is unworthy the service you’ve done me. The 
Frog will prove a better meal. Feast, then, 
upon him at your leisure.” 

The wise King spoke; then rose from his 
throne, and waving his magic wand of gold dis- 
missed his court. Slowly, very slowly, he passed 
through the green forest back to his hidden pal- 
ace of gold where the tall pomegranates flow- 
ered crimson beside the fragrant, clustering 
roses. 

For an instant the birds and the bees and their 
brother Man lingered without the daisy ring. 

“The Swallow will always have space in my 
heart, and a home ’neath the eaves wherever I 
dwell,” murmured Man in gratitude. 

The owl cast a scornful glance at him. 

“ ’Tis Friend Mosquito, you should thank, for 
his penetration,” he hooted. But Man only 
smiled as the bird flew off*. 

The poor Serpent was forced to submit to his 


12 FABLES IN FEATHERS 

dreadful fate. But his rage and fury knew no 
bounds. 

When the swallow, laughing a silver mocking 
laugh, circled mockingly past — Pouf! Pan! 
Pounce ! he shot wickedly up, and struck venom- 
ously with his great poison fangs. 

But the dainty swallow, well-knowing the 
thoughts of his wicked heart, soared lightly 
away, far, far up where the fleecy clouds were 
lazily drifting in the blue sky. 

The Serpent caught only the tip of her tail — 
right in the middle. 

That is why the swallow has worn a forked 
tail ever since that day in the long ago when 
the world was so very old ; wears it now, and will 
always wear it until the world grows so old it 
cannot grow any older. 


•4 



THE SERPENT CAUGHT ONLY THE TIP OF HER TAIL 





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WHY THE ROBIN WEARS A RED 
BREAST 


O NCE upon a time in the long, long ago 
when the old, old world was a very 
young world indeed, Solomon came from his 
palace of gold in the early dawn. Without, the 
dew lay heavy upon the scarlet bloom of the tall 
pomegranate trees and fragrant, clustering 
roses; the Sun still lurked in his dark hiding 
place; all nature slept. 

The great King wore no crown, no wand; his 
mantle and sandals of purest gold he had cast 
beside his couch. The shadowing dusk fell 
upon his long, fair curls that no longer gleamed 
with the golden sheen. Grey were they ; grey as 
the ashes of long dead sorrows. 

Down his cheeks coursed pearly drops, fall- 
ing heavier far than the dew on the sleeping 
grass, for the great King wept. 

He had lost his milk-white Pearl of Wis- 
dom. In his youth the Serpent had given it to 
him, bidding him wear it always upon his 
13 


14 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


breast. Thus his words had been wise and his 
deeds just, as befitted a great King, the ruler 
over all the earth. Too well the King knew that 
without its counsel, his rule would no longer 
be wise and just. 

While the King still wept, the Sun rose gold- 
en and majestic, the breeze whispered softly, 
stirring the roses, and scattering the dew from 
their scented hearts. The bees droned, the birds 
stirred in their nests and the lark in the meadow 
rose high in the sky in a burst of song. The 
world was awake. 

A robin, brown of breast and crest and wing 
and tail, came fluttering with merry wing from 
the woods. 

“Greeting, greeting!” he gaily called. Then 
with a loving glance at the King’s sad face, he 
circled close to his lord and settled on his 
shoulder with a merry chirp. 

“What grieves you. Lord?” he asked. 

“Lord am I no longer,” sighed Solomon. “I 
have lost my milky Pearl. Gone is it and the 
wisdom that made me King over all the earth.” 

“But how could that be?” rustled the trees. 
“Did you go forth in the night and lose it in the 
dark?” 


THE ROBIN’S RED BREAST 15 


“We’ll hunt by meadow and glade, and in 
every woodland dell,” called the breeze. 

“Nay!” replied Solomon, “that would not 
serve. I did not go forth in the night.” And 
the great King sadly shook his head. 

“Then how can you know the Pearl is gone?” 
chirped the robin. “Surely it must be within 
the palace. Chirp, chirp! I’ll help you search.” 

Solomon shook his head again. 

“Little brown Robin, this only do I know,” 
he said. “Last night I slept on my golden 
couch with the milky Pearl on my breast. In 
the early morn before tbe dawn, a chill breath 
swept my face. I woke and felt for the Pearl. 
It was gone.” 

“Lord, I will find the milk-white Pearl for all 
that, and make your heart glad again,” cheerily 
exclaimed the Robin. 

“But little brown Robin,” replied the King. 
“How can you do that?” 

“Love can do more even than wisdom. Lord,” 
chirped the robin. “Truly I love my little 
brown mate nestling among the roses, but you I 
love best of all. I will find the Pearl for you.” 

“Loving little Robin,” replied Solomon, “the 
Pearl is gone, but glad am I that your love is 


16 FABLES IN FEATHERS 

left me, though my wisdom he vanished as 
well.” 

“Robin, brown Robin,” piped the little blades 
of grass at the King’s feet. “Ask friend Ser- 
pent to aid you.” 

“Not so,” spoke Solomon. “The Serpent has 
forsaken me, since the day I bade him harm 
Man no more. I have not seen him since.” 

“Yet he was here last night,” persisted the 
grass blades. “We felt his slim coils glide past 
us into the palace. When he returned the silver 
rings on his polished black body gleamed 
strangely in the radiance of a soft, white light, 
that shone upon his brow.” 

“So did my milk white Pearl gleam in the 
darkness,” sighed the King. For truly, with- 
out the Pearl his wisdom was gone, and he saw 
no hidden meaning in the Serpent’s secret com- 
ing. 

The robin’s tiny brown feathers bristled with 
excitement. 

“Lord,” he chirped, “truly love can do more 
than wisdom, for I see what you do not. The 
Serpent hates you because he must at your com- 
mand feed forever upon the Frog. He came 
last night and stole the Pearl to grieve you. 


THE ROBIN’S RED BREAST 17 


That was the radiance gleaming upon his brow, 
as he crept away in the early dawn.” 

“It may be so, yet what can I against his 
craft? He taught me all I know, and how to 
use the magic gifts of flower and Sun and 
stone,” replied Solomon. 

“Ah hal” chirped the robin. “Leave friend 
Serpent to me. I doubt if his wisdom can out- 
wit my love. I will find the Pearl for you.” 

But the great King only shook his head and 
sighed again, for his heart was heavy with woe. 

“Fie, Lord;” encouraged the robin, as he 
poised for flight. “Cast aside your grief. 
Trust me this once. If I fail there’ll be plenty 
of time to mourn.” 

“Good luck speed you!” cried the grass and 
the breeze, as the robin flew boldly away in pur- 
suit of the Serpent who had seized the King’s 
stolen Pearl. 

The great King went into the palace again, 
put on his golden crown and sandals of purest 
gold, slipped his long mantle over his shoulders 
and took up his magic wand. Then he hastened 
down to the carven throne by the grass-grown 
circle, where the pearl-petalled daisies nodded 
drowsily in the early breeze. 


18 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


Day by day the great King waited, longing 
for the return of the robin. 

The little brown bird had always been a 
merry, friendly little soul, and the trees and the 
breeze and the brook and the blossoms all loved 
him. So as he fluttered from bough to shrub, 
they told him of slim gliding coils, silver ringed, 
polished and black, that had passed in the dawn, 
then in the early morn and then in the noontide 
Sun. 

Just as he came to the brink of a deep on- 
rushing river he heard a silvery, familiar voice. 

“Whither away so far from home, little brown 
Robin?” cried the voice. 

“Who are you. Broad Water?” asked the 
robin, pausing in his flight. 

“Your old friend, the Brook, grown deeper 
and wider now, but with the same love for you,” 
replied the river. 

“Then perhaps you will help me. Broad 
Water?” said the robin. “I am searching for 
the Serpent ; he has stolen the great King’s milk- 
white Pearl of Wisdom.” 

“Oh, ho!” laughed the broad water, “gladly 
will I help you. I know the Serpent’s haunt. 
The Sea Wind rushed up from the shore just 


THE ROBIN’S RED BREAST 19 


now and called as he passed: T saw the Ser- 
pent burrowing^ in the black mud of his lair 
awhile ago. He has something hidden there.’ ” 

“Chirp, chirp!” cried the robin. “It was the 
Pearl! Show me where the Serpent lives, that I 
may find it for the King.” 

“Willingly,” replied the on-rushing river, 
“but you must do as I tell you. My current 
flows more swiftly than your fluttering wings 
can carry you, and I may not tarry even for the 
King. Perch upon that green leaf that you see 
floating past and I will take you with me as 
I go.” 

The little brown robin gladly obeyed the 
river’s command. All day long he floated, and 
the next and the next. At last at a bend the 
banks widened away. The river’s swift current 
ebbed and flowed, then steadied itself for its 
onward course past the curve. Beyond, long 
stretches of dank marsh grass swayed in the salt- 
tanged air, and the black mud oozed down where 
the ripples frothed away from its touch. 

As they drew near, the river cried: 

“Listen well, little brown Robin. The Ser- 
pent dwells on the edge of yon marshy field. 
As I sweep round the bend, my waters dash 


20 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


foaming across its low stretch. I’ll send them 
on with such a rush this time that they’ll wash 
away the mud in which the Pearl lies hidden. 
Watch closely till you see its milky gleam. 
Then dart forward and seize it if you can, and 
then return to this green leaf which has borne 
you safely so far.” 

Poor robin’s heart fluttered wildly in his tiny 
brown breast, as he raced forward with the 
seething, rushing river, toward the green stretch 
where the wily Serpent dwelt. But remember- 
ing Solomon’s great grief, he summoned all his 
courage to do the broad water’s bidding. 

Whirling, swirling, frothing, the waters 
dashed forward, seething, foam-crested they 
swept toward the dank marsh grass — ^A sibilant 
hiss, the moan of the oozing mud, a soft white 
gleam in the dark slime, a flutter of wings flash- 
ing downward, and brown robin snatched the 
milk-white Pearl from beneath the shining coils 
of the startled Serpent’s black polished body! 
Swiftly he bore his prize to the green leaf. 

“Bravo! little brown Robin!” sang the broad 
water, above the Serpent’s angry hiss. “You 
are a loyal little friend and brave. I am glad I 
could help you. But now my time is almost 





THE ROBIN SNATCHED THE MILK-WHITE PEARL. 



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THE ROBIN’S RED BREAST 21 


spent. We are nearing the deep Sea and I can- 
not turn back to carry you safely to the great 
King’s court.” 

“Oh, what shall I do if you leave me alone?” 
cried the little robin tearfully. “Ah me, I fear 
the great King will never have his Pearl, and my 
pretty brown mate will wait in vain for my re- 
turn.” 

“I will send you across to that meadow yon- 
der, where those red poppies are nodding among 
the wheat,” replied the river. “They will aid 
you to escape your enemy. So good-bye, little 
brown Robin!” 

A tiny wavelet floated the green leaf gently 
ashore and then rushed onward to meet the deep 
sea. 

The robin’s fear was great, for he knew the 
Serpent would pursue him; and well he knew, 
too, that he would be caught, for the milk white 
Pearl was a heavy burden for his little wings, so 
that he could no longer soar high in the clouds, 
nor speed swiftly along. 

In the moon’s misty light he paused for an in- 
stant, half tempted to drop the Pearl and be 
safely off. But he loved the King, and think- 
ing the poppies might perhaps find a way to help 


22 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


him outwit the Serpent, he fluttered close to the 
crimson flowers. 

“Help me, dear Poppies, help me!” he cried, 
and told of the milk-white Pearl and the King’s 
great grief because of its loss. 

The poppies listened gravely, their scarlet 
cups swaying with interest and love in the soft 
night wind. 

“Dear little brown Robin,” murmured the tall- 
est poppy, “my petals are heavy with dew. See 
how it glistens red in the moonlight. Plunge 
your tiny body deep in my cup. The ruddy 
drops will stain your brown plumage scarlet. 
Then, not even the wily Serpent will know where 
you are.” 

The robin sank deep in the poppy’s heart, hut 
even his tiny body was far too large for the gen- 
erous cup. The dew-drops tinged only his 
breast with their crimson stain. When he flut- 
tered out, a cloud went drifting across the moon, 
so the poppies could not see that his head and 
wings were still brown. 

“Take this fuzzy green bud on my stem,” ad- 
vised the tall poppy, as the robin prepared to fly 
away. “You can hide the Pearl in its heart. 
Then who shall know that you are brown Robin 


THE ROBIN’S RED BREAST 23 


with King Solomon’s milk-white Pearl in your 
beak?” 

The robin thanked the tall poppy and caught 
up the fuzzy green bud. 

He fluttered away toward the great King’s 
court, with a joyful heart. Once, as he jour- 
neyed along, he caught a glimpse of the Ser- 
pent’s shining black body. The slim coils were 
wound around a slender sapling where two lin- 
nets housed. His great head peered curiously 
into their nest. Then turned aside as brown 
robin sped past. But the sun shone full on that 
crimson breast. The Serpent saw, but knew 
him not. 

The great King sat on his throne of gold 
waiting — waiting, day by day, for the Pearl was 
heavy in the little bird’s beak and his flight was 
slow. 

The birds had gathered without the velvety 
circle of emerald grass. The breeze and the 
brook and all living things waited there, too. 
But their joy was gone, for their lord was sad. 

The sun-god rose high in the sky when a week 
was gone and the daisies drooped beneath their 
weight of dew. 

“Lord,” they nodded, “where is the Robin?” 


24 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


Just as they spoke, a strange feathered bird 
fluttered past them, his breast flashing crimson 
in the golden sun-beams, as brown robin’s had 
never done. 

Sir Red-breast darted forward with a merry 
chirp, perched upon the King’s knee, and into his 
open empty palm dropped a little fuzzy green 
bud. 

“Truly lord, love can do more than wisdom!” 
chirped the bird. “See, I have brought you the 
milk-white Pearl. Chirp, chirp!” 

The King stared in wonderment. Well he 
knew that merry, chirping voice, hut never be- 
fore had he seen the little brown robin with this 
bright red breast. In his amazement his hand 
closed sharply over the fuzzy green bud, crush- 
ing it cruelly. Then as the petals opened, the 
milk-white Pearl gleamed soft and clear. 

The little robin chirped joyously as the glint- 
ing sheen of joy brought back the glory of the 
King’s golden Kingship. 

“And what of yourself, loving little friend?” 
questioned the wise King. “How shall I re- 
ward you?” 

Glently he stroked the tiny feathered head, 
while the robin told of all that had befallen him, 


THE ROBIN’S RED BREAST 25 


since that grey dawn of the long, long ago, when 
the old, old world was so very young, and the 
King stood white and forlorn without the palace 
gates. 

When the tale was told the great King said: 

“So your red breast saved you? Then, little 
brown Robin, wear it always. When your 
enemy seeks you from morn to night and morn 
again, he will never be able to find you, to do 
you harm.” 

Robin still wears his red breast — loving little 
Robin Red-breast — while the world grows older, 
older yet. 

The Serpent, untiring in his search, pursues 
every bird that flutters across his path. 

But never since the old, old world was a very 
young world indeed, has he found that little 
robin, brown of crest and breast and wing and 
tail, who stole from his lair the great Bang’s 
milk-white Pearl of Wisdom. 


WHY THE WOODPECKER GOES 
A-TAPPING 


O NCE upon a time, in the long, long ago, 
when the old, old world was a very 
young world indeed, the hreath of the Spring 
went quivering throughout the land, in every 
emerald-hued leaf and rosy gold bud, for the 
birth of the new year was eome. 

Solomon sat musing on his throne of gold, 
with his erown and his golden wand, and his 
long, fair eurls, that shimmered more ruddy 
than throne or erown, in the glinting light of 
the Sun. 

Once again without that grass-grown court, 
ringed with its pearl-petaled daisies, the birds 
and the bees and their brother, Man, gathered as 
was their w'ont, when the Frost Lord fled to the 
north, to learn the King’s will for the coming 
year. Only the Serpent, silver-ringed, with pol- 
ished back coils, defied the wise King and came 
not. 


26 


iTHE WOODPECKER’S TAPPING 27 


A great oak grew on the moss-grown bank, 
by the silver brook. 

“Lord,” spoke the tree, “a blight fell upon my 
brethren in the year that is gone. Willingly we 
shelter and feed the little tree-mites, but un- 
grateful they swarm beyond what is right, sap- 
ping our strength until we grow rotten and use- 
less.” 

The wise King glanced up at the stately tree. 

“Aye,” he spoke, “I remember the birds and 
the bees brought the tale to my court.” 

“The insects buzz in the branch where I nest,” 
chirped the robin. “They said that the wily Ser- 
pent had banded them together to make war 
against the trees.” 

“That’s because they provided Man with wood 
for his dwelling,” twittered the swallow, circling 
closely to the nodding daisies. 

Solomon frowned as he thought of the evil the 
Serpent had wrought. 

“I am the King!” he exclaimed. “I will find 
a way to protect the trees.” And he waved his 
magic wand till it blazed in a shimmering shaft. 

“But how can you learn their needs?” 
swarmed the sun-motes. “Alone of all your 
subjects, the flowers and trees and shrubs and 


28 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


earth-growing things cannot come to your court 
to protest.” 

“We must stay where we grow,” rustled the 
oak. “Our roots hold us fast.” 

“True,” spoke the wise King. “So I promise 
to send a royal messenger every spring, to learn 
the strength of each tree, that I may decree the 
number of insects and mites permitted to house 
in the bark.” 

“Then waste not a moment, Lord,” urged the 
oak, “Now is the time when we grow apace. 
Soon the mites will gnaw to our hearts and de- 
stroy the fountain of our sap.” 

“That I know,” replied Solomon. “But the 
very best way to find the secret of your strength 
and the enemy’s vantage point is puzzling me 
not a little.” 

“Lord,” cried the oak, “I and my brethren 
store one drop of the dead year’s sap in our 
hearts until the breath of the spring sends a new 
life bounding through our veins. One short 
week more and it will be gone. Send your mes- 
S(»iger with this little cup of mine to gather the 
precious drops. So you can judge for your- 
self.” 

The oak rustled his branches mightily as he 


THE WOODPECKER’S TAPPING 29 


spoke, and a tiny acorn fell into Solomon’s out- 
stretched hand. 

“Wisely spoken!” said the King. “Now who 
shall I choose for my messenger?” 

Red-hreast fluttered forward close to the car- 
ven throne. 

“Send me!” he chirped. “I proved myself 
sharper than the Serpent. Surely the mites can- 
not outwit me.” 

“Nay Rohin, your flight is too slow, and there 
is but a short week for the task,” refused the 
King of Gold. 

“But I,” cried the swallow, “am fleet of wing. 
I swept past the Serpent too swift for his 
venom, and soared to the skies, as you know.” 

The wise King slowly shook his head and said : 

“Fleet of wing you are, but you could never 
carry the acorn so far.” 

The parrot strutted pompously past the gold- 
headed daisies. 

“I am wise with the wisdom of ages to come,” 
he remarked. “There’s nothing I need to learn. 
Send me, for I’ll save you the trouble of judg- 
ing. I’ll do it myself as I go.” 

Solomon laughed at the vain-glorious bird. 
“You’re over-fond of prating of your wis- 


30 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


dom. Merit, my friend, needs no placard. Be- 
sides, I’ve already chosen. The woodpecker is 
strong of wing, with long, stout beak.” 

“Have no fear,” trilled a brisk little bird, sil- 
ver-vested, with russet wings. “I once thrust 
my beak in the spruce-gum tree. It caught but 
I pulled and came away free. It’s a bit rusty 
brown, but strong as can be.” 

Then fluttering down he picked up the tiny 
acorn. 

“Go!” bade the King. “Remember you have 
but a week. When the spring settles down the 
insects are housed and not even I may drive them 
forth. But accomplish this task and you shall 
be honored forever as my royal messenger.” 

Proud of his mission, the little woodpecker set 
off; gaily he raced the scented breeze to a dis- 
tant grove, purple-tipped with warm sunny 
haze, against the cloudless sky. In its cooling 
shade where balsam and pine mingled with larch 
and flr, he glanced about. 

“Here begins my work!” he cried, and 
straightway steadied himself against a young 
larch, laced with the twining tendrils of a hon- 
eysuckle vine. 

“Mistress Honeysuckle, will you hold my cup 


THE WOODPECKER’S TAPPING 31 


while I do the King’s bidding? For you must 
know,” he added proudly, “that I am the royal 
messenger, sent to protect the trees from the 
blight that befell them last year.” 

The slender vine nodded, and opening its buds 
breathed forth an exquisite perfume of sym- 
pathy. 

“Gladly,” she murmured, “but you must not 
ask every vine you meet. Some are parasites, 
seeking only to harm the trees. You will never 
see your acorn again if you entrust it to them.” 

“But what am I to do?” asked the wood- 
pecker ruefully. “I cannot hold it in my beak 
and go a-tapping too.” 

“No,” replied the honeysuckle, “but I’ll make 
you a network of young shoots, in which you 
can carry it hidden beneath your wing.” And 
deftly she threaded her tendrils around him in a 
wonderful fairy film. 

The woodpecker thanked the gracious vine, 
then, fully determined to keep his treasure safe 
hidden, flew oif with a light heart until he came 
to a huge maple. Perching against the rough 
bark he thrust his beak into the trunk, — tap, 
tapl 

“Crarr-rr, crarr-rrl” came his musical call. 


32 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


“I am the royal messenger come for the dead 
year’s sap. Crarr-rr! crarr-rr!” 

The maple sighed softly while the strong beak 
kept tapping, tap, tap. Slowly a liquid silver 
drop stole through the opening and fell in the 
woodpecker’s cup. 

Then the woodpecker flew off to a neighbor- 
ing oak and went tapping again, tap, tap. 

Day and night he labored up the world and 
(down, pausing only to sip the sweet juice of the 
berries, with never a thought for worm or mite. 

“Crarr-rr, crarr-rr!” with never a moment to 
sleep. “Crarr-rr, crarr-rr!” with each tap a fresh 
store in his cup. At last so great was his haste 
he found he had finished before the last day of 
the week. 

Poor little woodpecker! He was very tired 
with such a long journey to go. What wonder 
he sought a brief rest before he sped back to the 
great King’s court? Carefully searching the 
thicket he found a slender sapling rooted in a 
hollow tree-trunk that had fallen slantwise 
across the undergrowth. 

“The best of aU bidding places!” he thought, 
and nestled in a dark corner with the precious 
acorn snugly folded from sight. 






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THE WOODPECKER’S TAPPING 33 


He only meant to rest with one eye to his 
treasure. But the poor little bird was so tired 
he slept very soundly at once. 

A glow-worm came from a glade of fern to 
the old tree-trunk. Softly his tiny lamp lit up 
the dark hollow. The little tree-mites came 
scurrying down to see its wondrous glow. 

“Ssh-ssh-ssh!” The mites swarmed. 

“Ssh-ssh-ssh!” Round the sleeping bird they 
circled. 

“Ssh-ssh-ssh!” But the woodpecker never 
stirred. 

“Ho, ho!” laughed a malicious voice, and the 
Serpent coiled dark and slim by their side. 
“Ho, ho! the King’s messenger asleep, and you 
waste your time. Ho, ho !” 

His great head shot forward, swaying bale- 
fully above the sleeping woodpecker. 

“Ho, ho! How fine to rob him of his acorn! 
Then you could feast on the trees to your hearts’ 
content.” 

The little tree-mites stirred uneasily. 

“Do it for us. Sir Serpent,” they begged. 

“That I may not, for none may destroy the 
King’s messenger. My mouth is too large to 
handle the cup without harm to the bearer. See 


34 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


how frail is that network of tendrils. It would 
snap at a touch. Ho, ho!” he mocked. Then 
swiftly uncoiling he glided away in the night. 

“Ho, ho!” echoed the evening breeze. “Ho, 
ho !” 

“Ssh-sssh-ssh!” Closer, closer swept the tree- 
mites. 

“Ssh-ssh-ssh!” Then one more venturesome 
than his fellows settled upon the green tendrils. 
Tick, tick, tick, tick! And the acorn rolled help- 
lessly down. 

The glow-worm paled as the sunlight dawned; 
the mites crept back to the sapling. The little 
woodpecker stirred, yawned, fluttered his tiny 
wings, then paused dismayed. There lay the 
oak-cup, and empty! 

Poor little woodpecker! But he was a brave 
little bird and honest. Off he flew to the great 
King’s court by the side of the silvery, swirling 
brook. 

The great King sat on his carven throne and 
looked expectantly down. For an instant the 
woodpecker paused dismayed. ’Twas no easy 
task to confess his failure. Yet there was noth- 
ing for him to do but to brave the King’s wrath. 

“Lord,” he cried ruefully, “I have failed.” 


THE WOODPECKER’S TAPPING 35 


“He, he!” laughed the parrot. “You would 
not trust me, Lord.” 

But the great oak sadly rustled its boughs. 
The spring was come and he knew the trees had 
no more sap for the King. 

“Perhaps I sent you forth too late?” spoke 
Solomon, pitying his crestfallen little messen- 
ger. 

“Nay, Lord,” answered the woodpecker, “the 
trees gave me their message but I grew weary at 
last. I slept and I dreamed that the tree-mites 
swarmed and I felt the chill breath of the Ser- 
pent. When I awakened the acorn had fallen 
and the sap was gone.” 

Solomon frowned angrily, and the birds and 
the bees and their brother Man stirred uneasily 
at the thought of the war that the Serpent 
waged on the King and all of his subjects. 

“Woodpecker,” said Solomon at last. “You 
may no longer serve as my royal messenger. 
Yet your answer was truthful, so you shall atone 
by acting as my royal policeman. Day and 
night, year in and year out, you shall watch over 
the trees, destroying the mites when they swarm 
beyond what is right.” 

The woodpecker ruffled his crest proudly. 


36 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


“In that at least,” he exclaimed, “I will prove 
faithful! I vow never again to feed only on 
berry and flower. The mites and the insects 
shall be my prey until I have rid the trees of this 
pest.” 

The great oak rustled softly. 

“Willing little policeman! You shall house 
in our hollow limbs and drink of our sap when- 
ever your stout beak pierces our bark.” 

“But it were not justice that the faithless mes- 
senger should go unpunished!” exclaimed the 
King. “So, little woodpecker, although you 
toil for the good of the trees, you shall con- 
stantly be misunderstood for a greedy young 
glutton intent upon feeding.” 

Solomon spoke. Then as the woodpecker’s 
crest and wings drooped sadly, the wise King 
smiled and said: 

“But, if for one year you save all the trees 
from the wicked mites you shall be forgiven, 
and serve as my royal messenger again.” 

“Tweet, tweet! Chirp, chirp!” was there ever 
such a flutter as other birds came crowding for- 
ward with promise to aid in the quest ! 

And so since that day, in the long ago, the 
woodpecker has kept constantly tapping, tap 


THE WOODPECKER’S TAPPING 37 


tap! till his musical call has grown harsh and 
shrill. Crarr-rr, crarr-rr! 

And still though the world has grown very 
old, the tree-mites continue to swarm, but the 
woodpecker keeps up that constant tap, tap, 
striving to save the trees for just one year, be- 
fore the world grows so very old it cannot grow 
any older. 


WHY THE OWL CAN’T SEE IN THE 
SUN 



|NCE upon a time, in the long, long ago. 


when the old, old world was a very 
young world indeed, the fruit trees were snowily 
laden with shell-tinted blossoms, fragrant and 


white. 


The June breeze came carolling gaily along. 

“Haste to the great King’s court,” he called, 
as he sped past bush, and tree, and shrub. 

The httle gray squirrel, the birds, and the 
bees, sped away to the grass-grown court ringed 
within pearl-white daisies, by the side of the sil- 
ver swirling brook. Only the owl sulked as he 
lagged along. But the Serpent, defiant and 
evil, lurked in the shade of the woods. 

Solomon sat on his golden throne, with his 
crown and his magic wand, and a shaft of light 
struck straight from the heart of the Sun to its 
rounded, golden ball. 

“Welcome, my subjects,” the wise King cried 
as they flocked from every side. 

The birds trilled a greeting, the squirrel curled 


38 


WHY THE OWL CAN’T SEE 39 


his bushy tail up over his back, and a little rabbit 
scurj’ied close to the King. 

“The birds are ready to make their report,” he 
announced. 

The wise King waved his wand of gold till 
the sun-motes swam in a blaze of light. 

“Begin!” spoke the King as the thrush flut- 
tered down. 

“Lord,” she replied, “we have searched the 
earth from end to end as you bade.” 

“And garnered the pollen from every breeze 
that shook the blossoms and the trees,” inter- 
rupted the linnet. 

“We stored it well in the Sun, and scattered 
it wide over meadow and fleld,” echoed the dove. 

“We buried it deep in moss and brake,” 
piped the reed-bird. 

“And there’s never a nook in the whole, wide 
world that we overlooked,” said the jay with a 
positive air. 

Solomon smiled at the eager birds. 

“That is well,” he exclaimed, “for, unless you 
sow the earth with the pollen in the spring the 
ground will be bare. Then the shrubs will not 
grow for your shelter, nor the berries ripen an- 
other year for your food.” 


40 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


And the wise King waved his wand of gold, 
whirling it round in the shaft of light. The sun 
rays fell on the owl’s grim face, and he blinked 
as he glanced away. 

“Lord,” whispered the sun-motes, “the Owl 
has not made his report — And just look at his 
face !” 

Solomon glanced at the sulky owl, who would 
not meet his gaze. 

“Of a truth, he seems somewhat anxious to 
hide, and his looks are glum as if he had dis- 
obeyed, and feared my wrath,” the wise King 
thought. Then aloud, he said: “Come, Mas- 
ter Owl. It is your turn to speak. Pray how 
fares the land of the farms and barns that I 
gave to your care?” 

The owl glanced sullenly up, minded to fly 
away without answering, but the sun shaft fell 
full on his face, and the King’s eyes were stern, 
so he dared not disobey. 

“Lord,” he replied, “I garnered the pollen 
and sowed the fields. But the wind came along 
and scattered it as it fell so that the ground re- 
mained bare.” 

“Oh,” rustled the breeze, “my father, the 
Wind, loves the farms and fields, and the Avav- 


WHY THE OWL CAN’T SEE 41 


ing grain above all things. He must have 
known of some nook you had overlooked.” 

Solomon nodded gravely, and turned to the 
owl. “If that be so,” he said, “you should have 
garnered a fresh store, and left the Wind to 
work his will.” 

“I am a philosopher not a farmer. Lord, ' 
grumbled the owl. 

“Philosophers must eat, friend,” reproved 
Solomon. 

“I sit in my nest and the feathered tribes come 
to me for sage advice. They can well do my 
work in return,” retorted the owl. 

Solomon glanced down with a heavy frown. 
“I very much doubt,” he exclaimed, “that you’re 
telling the truth. You were lazy and greedy I 
see. You ate up the seeds. For your sins you 
shall go from my court without companions or 
friends. Alone you will remain until all the 
land that I gave to your care shall bloom from 
the pollen you sow. Now go!” And the wise 
King waved his wand angrily to and fro. 

The owl flew away in disgrace, by meadow 
and fleld to a moss-grown deU in a woody glade 
where he housed in a hollow stump. 

“How could the King guess what I had 


42 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


done?” he repeated again and again. “Hoo-oo! 
I wish I knew.” 

A rustling of twigs and the shiver of moss 
beneath slim gliding coils sounded at the foot 
of the tree. 

“The Sun travels swiftly around the earth,” 
hissed a voice, and the Serpent’s great head 
reared close by the hollowed stump. 

“Hoo-oo! Hoo-oo!” mocked the owl in his 
sullen mood, “I knew that before.” 

“But you did not know that the sun-motes, 
dancing in the shaft of light that falls from the 
King’s ball-tipped wand, were the ones to tell 
of your craft,” the Serpent hissed swiftly back. 

“Hoo-oo! Hoo-oo!” repeated the owl de- 
risively, “what a silly tale !” 

The Serpent reared, swaying angrily back 
forth as though he meant to strike. Then he 
suddenly smiled at a thought he had, and paused 
and said instead: 

“Not so silly if you but understood, oh Bird 
of Wisdom.” 

“If it’s anything more than silly, why not 
explain,” retorted the owl. “Hoo-oo! Hoo-ooo! 
I’m waiting to be convinced.” 

“Know then,” the Serpent replied, “that the 



"HOO-00! WHAT A SILLY TALE!” 





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WHY THE OWL CAN’T SEE 43 

Sun and the motes are the slaves of the ball. 
By them Solomon learns all that happens in the 
world, so that none may deceive him so long as 
he holds that wand in his hand,” 

“If they are the slaves of the ball.” thought- 
fully murmured the owl, “I suppose they must 
obey whoever possesses it.” And he twisted his 
head round and round, till it almost fell off, 
when he twisted it back again. 

The Serpent coiled low where the owl could 
no longer see his eyes that gleamed with a mock- 
ing light. 

“Ho-ho! Ho-ho!” he laughed to himself, 
“he’s caught at the bait. We’ll see if he’ll mock 
me again. Then, too, he will serve to aid in the 
war that I wage on the King. Ho-ho I” 

“If I had the ball — ” the owl remarked, then 
stopped and scratched his head. 

“Yes,” replied the Serpent to the bird’s 
thought, “then you could command the world 
and the King as well. He’d never dare send 
you off in disgrace because you prefer to think 
rather than work.” 

“Hoo-oo! I must find a way to get at the 
ball,” the owl exclaimed. 

The Serpent’s eyes glittered maliciously. 


44 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


“The sun-rays follow the ball. I fear the King 
would soon find it again,” he observed. 

“Hoo-oo!” vainly commented the owl. “Don’t 
you suppose I’d know enough to hide it where 
the Sun couldn’t possibly follow it unless I 
wished?” 

“The Sun in strong,” craftily cautioned the 
Serpent, “Make sure your eyes are able to defy 
his dazzling rays, before you steal the ball.” 

The owl grew more stubborn with every word, 
as the Serpent expected. 

“Hoo-oo!” he hooted, “I have no fear!” 

But the Serpent was gone and the wise owl 
sat alone. 

All day long the sun-rays danced through the 
quivering leaves threading the moss with a 
golden weave. 

“Gather the pollen while you may, for sum- 
mer will come, and ’twill be too late to sow 
meadow and field for the coming year,” they 
urged. 

But the owl gave no heed. 

“Haste, haste, you’ve no time to waste!” 
called the breeze, while the light sped on. 

But the owl said never a word. He sat all 
day in his old tree-trunk, thinking and plan- 


WHY THE OWL CAN’T SEE 45 


ning and scheming how best he might steal that 
magic ball, till at last he found a way. 

When the Sun sank low in the cloudless sky, 
the birds came twittering home to their nests in 
the trees and shrubs. The breeze sank to rest 
and all Nature slept, wrapped in her dark slum- 
ber robe. 

Then silently forth from his nest came the 
owl, silently flew away, for anger had sharpened 
his eyes so well that he found it no task to pierce 
the gloom of the night.- 

Quickly he sped to the tall pomegranates that 
grew fragrant and scarlet around the golden 
palace of the King. There he paused on a win- 
dow ledge. 

“Let me see first where the wand lies hid,” 
thought the owl. “Then ’twill take me short 
time to accomplish my end.” And he peered 
attentively in. 

Solomon lay on his slumber couch, with his 
crown and his wand at his side, but the Sun had 
set and their light was gone. Only a faint blur 
in the darkness betrayed them to the owl’s keen 
eyes. 

For one instant longer he paused, then 
swooped suddenly down. He seized the ball in 


46 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


one strong claw and his huge, sharp beak closed 
on the wand. A harsh grating sound, like the 
buzz of a file, and the beak went through, snap- 
ping the shaft from the golden ball just as the 
King stirred, rousing from his slumber. 

But the owl flew away, a blur in the night, to 
the hollow tree where he housed. 

In a soft tuft of moss stored well in the bark 
of his nest, he hid that pilfered ball and gripped 
it well in his two strong claws; then he peace- 
fully went to sleep. 

The sun-shaft called in the early dawn, strik- 
ing straight to the hidden magic ball. Wide, 
wide, the owl’s eyes opened, and wider yet to the 
gleaming golden light. 

A rustling of twigs and the shiver of moss 
stirred the morning breeze. 

“Oh, ho!” laughed a voice, “what strong eyes 
you have !” and the Serpent glided past. 

“Hoo-oo! I’m not afraid of the Sun,” re- 
torted the owl, though he blinked a bit in the 
dazzling glare that streamed more and more 
brightly in his eyes. 

Solomon M^aked in the early morn and found 
that the magic golden ball was gone from his 
wand. He thought of that snapping, grating 


WHY THE OWL CAN’T SEE 47 

sound that had broken his dreams the night be- 
bore. 

“I’ll soon find the thief,” he mused, “for the 
sun-shaft will lead straight to the ball.” 

When the Sun rose high in the cloudless sky 
the wise King came from his palace of gold. 
Past the tall pomegranates and clustering roses 
he went, through the forest depths to the grass- 
grown court by the silver brook. Then he 
paused to look full at the Sun. Its shimmering 
gleams streamed down on a grove that stretched 
far away beyond the swirling brook and the 
green meadow grass. 

“Ah,” thought the King, “the thief has hidden 
my ball within its shade,” and he hastened away 
to the mossy glade close to the old tree trunk, 
where the owl sat defying the Sun. 

“Hoo-oo, hoo-oo!” he mocked as the King 
drew near. “Old Sun I can stare you in the 
face now without blinking, for I’ve grown quite 
used to your glare.” 

The wise King waited where the tall fronds 
of the giant ferns edged the mossy glade, watch- 
ing as the owl sat staring on. He saw the dark 
eyes grow suddenly golden and bright in the yel- 
low blaze of the Sun. The motes came dancing 


48 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


down the shaft that stretched from the cloudless 
sky to the old tree trunk. 

“Oh, oh!” they cried. “You cannot keep us 
from finding the ball, though you hide it with 
moss and grasp it in both claws.” 

The wise King smiled with delight, for he 
knew the ball of his golden wand lay hidden be- 
neath the owl, as he sat there staring with golden 
eyes up at the golden Sun. 

Solomon stepped from behind the ferns and 
crossed the mossy glade where he paused in 
front of the hollow stump. 

“Master owl, come forth!” he commanded in 
his most kindly voice. 

The owl turned swiftly at the words, but the 
bright, strong Sun had dazzled his eyes and 
blinded his sight until he could not see another 
thing. 

In a dreadful fright at his terrible plight he 
flew out of the hollow tree, but he bumped his 
head on a drooping bough and dropped the ball 
in his pain. 

Solomon caught up that golden ball before it 
could touch the ground and carefully fitted it 
on his wand. 

“You mischievous bird!” he cried in wrath. 


WHY THE OWL CAN’T SEE 49 


“you are punished for your prank.” And the 
wise King turned his back on him. 

The owl had never a word to say as Solomon 
walked away. Well he knew there was no boon 
in store for him to avert his doom. 

“I bade you gather the pollen while you 
might,” rustled the breeze. “Now how will you 
sow the fields? I very much fear you’U forever 
be friendless and alone.” 

“Ho, ho! and you live in gloom, unless you 
keep watching the Sun,” mocked the Serpent as 
he coiled by the old tree trunk. 

All day long the poor owl sat on a twisting 
root, turning toward that shaft of light, the 
only thing he could see. He dare not venture 
back to his nest for his head was still sore from 
that terrible bump, but when night stole through 
the trees his eyes gleamed golden in the gloom. 
He found he could see very well in the dark, 
for all he was blind by day — though it cannot be 
said it greatly consoled him. 

’Twas a lonely life that he led at best, cooped 
up in a hollow stump by day, while the birds 
were abroad in the sweet Springtide. And 
when he vsdnged his flight from his nest in the 
gathering dusk the songsters were gone. 


50 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


And ever sinee that day his mournful hoot is 
heard only by night, as he wanders through 
woodland and grove, friendless and alone among 
all the birds of the earth. 


WHY THE PEACOCK WEARS EYES 
ON HIS TAIL 


O NCE upon a time, in the long, long ago, 
when the old, old world was a very 
young world indeed, the ring-dove sped to the 
great King’s eourt in a passion of woe. 

Past the swaying pearl-petalled daisies she 
fluttered, plaintively drooping in sad-colored 
garb to the grass-grown court ringed by their 
gleaming hearts. 

Solomon bent from his throne of gold and 
smiled at the mourning dove. , 

“What grieves you so, oh Bird of Life?” he 
asked in a pitying tone. 

“Bird of Life am I no longer,” sighed the 
dove, “for my love is dead.” And her feathered 
wings drooped low on the emerald grass. 

“Whence sped the shaft of death to wound 
your tender heart?” questioned the wise King. 

The ring-dove drooped lower yet on the vel- 
vet grass, and her voice could scarce be heard. 
“Lord, last night as my mate was tenderly 
51 


52 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


telling his love, a flash of silver and polished 
black coiled on the bough, an angry hiss stirred 
the breeze, and, struck to the heart, he fell,” she 
said. 

“The Serpent!” frowned Solomon angrily. 

“Aye,” murmured the dove, “his great head 
hung swaying mockingly over the nest. ‘Prater 
of love,’ he hissed, ‘you, too, shall go the way 
of hate, for dainty eggs are more tempting 
fare than King Solomon’s frog.’ ” 

The wise King stared in amaze. “Yet you 
are safe,” he said in wonder, “but by what 
ruse?” 

“Lord,” cooed the dove, “as the Serpent 
poised to strike, a harsh cry sounded beneath the 
tree, with a curious rustling of rattling quills. 
For an instant he paused in alarm, then noise- 
lessly glided away.” 

As she spoke, the same rustling of quills was 
heard, and a dull brown bird with a tail of short 
straight feathers that were perfectly bare, ex- 
citedly strutted within the gleaming circle of the 
court. 

“I must have startled the Serpent,” he boast- 
fully said. “Last night while scratching for in- 
sects among the bushes I stepped on a thorn. 


THE PEACOCK’S TAIL 


53 


In pain I cried out and rattled the quills in my 
tail, for I thought it some venomous worm. 
Then a gleam of silver shot swiftly past and fled 
in the dusk.” 

“Bravo, Sir Peacock!” praised the wise King. 
“The Serpent dreaded the night alarm of your 
strident cry, for he only preys in solitude.” 

“But he will return when he thinks I’m 
alone,” sobbed the dove. “Lord, grant me a 
protector, that I may hatch out my nestlings un- 
disturbed by his wiles.” 

Solomon gazed at the little gray bird with a 
puzzled smile. 

“Your protector would probably share the 
fate of your mate,” he mused aloud. “So who 
shall I send on the dangerous quest of guarding 
your nest, ah Bird of Love?” 

The peacock ruffled his breast with pride. 

“My long bare quills may not be pretty,” he 
exclaimed, “and my call I grant is a trifle harsh, 
but both have their uses since they frightened 
the Serpent. That is more than the rest of the 
birds can say.” 

“True” nodded the King, “though you’re 
rather too vain of your prowess for such a plain 
brown bird.” 


54 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


“Lord,” cooed the dove, “why blame him for 
pride Avhen he oifers his service in love?” 

“Truly you are a wise little bird,” smiled the 
King. “Go then Sir Peacock on your mission 
of love. The trees and the sky and the brook 
and the breeze shall aid you in shielding the 
dove.” 

The ring-dove paused by the throne of gold 
and softly cooed: 

“Lord, if he succeeds, let the gifts they be- 
stow to help in the quest be his for all time, in 
reward.” 

The wise King waved his wand of gold, and 
gently smiled at the grateful bird. 

“Go your way in peace, gray dove,” he spoke, 
“lest the dusk fall before you reach your nest 
and you find your eggs gone. Later we will 
talk of rewards.” 

The dove and the peacock traveled away by 
shady glades and blossoming hedgerows and 
dells till they came to a rippling silver brook 
fiowing quietly in a vale far away from the 
grass-grown court. 

The way had been long, and the birds paused 
wearily on the moss-grown bank, for the sum- 
mer sun had heated the scented breeze. Below 


THE PEACOCK’S TAIL 53 

them the limpid stream flowed cool and tempt- 
ing. 

“Come hathe in my breast, poor tired birds,” 
it crooned as it rippled along. 

But the gray dove mourned in reply: “Never 
again will I bathe or drink in clear water, lest 
my reflection revive the image of my lost mate.” 
And she sighed, for great was her thirst. 

“Poor little Dove,” the peacock said. “See, 
yonder, where the low-hanging willows dim 
the stream with their shading green, is a shallow 
pool. I’ll ruffle its surface with beak and breast 
so you may drink without fear of grief.” 

The peacock stepped in the shady pool, 
plunging and dipping his crest till the water 
quivered with dancing ripples of blue and green 
shot with a wondrous silver. 

The weary dove sank in the ruffled pool and 
quenched her thirst in the cooling flow. 

Just as she stepped on the mossy bank, a sun- 
rift parted the willow boughs, staining the pea- 
cock’s feathers with the water’s changing sheen. 
Proudly he paused beside the dove, and stared 
at his mirrored gold-green crest, and the shim- 
mering blue of his breast. 

“That is my gift for your service of love,” 


56 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


rippled the brook. And the gray dove cooed 
joyfully, forgetting her woe in the peacock’s 
delight. 

Then on they journeyed till the Sun sank in 
the bi’ight-hued West. But grief and her flight 
to the great King’s court had robbed the dove 
of her strength. She faltered wearily on the 
brink of a lake just across from the apple tree 
where she housed. 

“I can never fly over,” she sighed, “and while 
it’s not deep, ’tis too deep for such a small bird 
as I to wade across. Oh dear, I fear for my 
nestlings, for it will soon be dark.” 

The peacock pondered awhile, then Arm and 
straight he lifted his featherless quills. 

“Perch on my back,” he bade the dove, “I’ll 
bear you safely across.” 

The gray dove nestled among the quills, and 
the peacock bravely breasted the little lake. 
But when he reached the opposite shore his 
quills, weighted with silvery drops, caught in a 
brown sedge that frothed near the bank. 

He pulled and pulled till every quill strained 
longer and longer, held fast in the sedge. 

The gray dove stood waiting on the bank. 

“Poor little dove,” sighed the peacock at last 


THE PEACOCK’S TAIL 57 

in despair, “I fear I shall not be able to help 
you after all.” 

“Oh, ho!” laughed the sedge, “The Serpent 
loves our slimy depths; and you’re fast in our 
toils.” 

“You wicked sedge!” cried the peacock in a 
rage, freeing himself with a mighty tug. 

The sinking Sun shot a shaft of light that 
dried the sedge on his quills in a caking gold- 
tinged film. 

“Step up on the bank,” the sun-motes called, 
“for that is the gift of the Sun.” 

The peacock gazed at the gleaming shaft in 
dismay. Surely a weight of sedge on his aching 
quills was hardly a gift to please! But he 
raised them up like a spreading fan to ease his 
tired back. 

The evening breeze stirred gently among the 
sedge-brown quills breathing here, breathing 
there, till the caking film warmed to a feathery 
mass of plumes. Only the tips of the plumes 
clung web-like together, rounded and firm, for 
the warmth had fled with the setting Sun before 
the task was done. 

“That is my gift,” rustled the breeze, sway- 
ing among the trees. 


58 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


The ring-dove perched in the apple tree and 
peered anxiously into her nest. 

“Two, three, four! My eggs are safe,” she 
cried joyfully; then fluttered doAvn to warm 
them under her breast. 

The peacock scratched among bush and shrub, 
and stored a feast on a blackberry leaf for the 
weary dove. 

Then low in the sky shone a silvery rim. The 
peacock rustled his plumes in alarm, but the Ser- 
pent was hiding in his lair, and only the rounded 
disk of the Moon rose high in the star-bright 
sky. 

“Oh Moon, how you frightened me!” cried 
the peacock, and told her the tale of his quest. 

“Weary, indeed, I fear you will be if you 
watch all the time,” gleamed the radiant silvery 
light. “Spread your feathery train over the 
nest, then you will feel the Serpent’s coils before 
he can strike through to the dove if he steals on 
you unawares.” 

The peacock followed the Moon’s advice, and 
warm and snug, the ring-dove slept beneath the 
sheltering plumes that covered her nest. 

The Serpent came prowling around in the 
gloom when all was still, just before dawn. 



THE PEACOCK FOLLOWED THE MOON’S ADVICE. 





THE PEACOCK’S TAIL 


59 


But he soon heard the rustling of rattling quills, 
and the watchful bird gave the strident cry that 
had frightened him off before. 

But the second night the peacock could 
scarcely keep awake, and the silver Moon waned 
all too soon. 

“Oh Eyes of the Night, have you no gift for 
the Peacock?” cried the radiant light to the stars 
as she sped away. 

The dark blue night gleamed myriad-like with 
its golden dust. Then a shooting star flashed 
down to rest on the peacock’s plumes. Another, 
another, and still they came, flashing gold- 
ringed on the shimmering brown plumes, till a 
thousand eyes gleamed watchfully on the bur- 
nished train. 

“Sleep while we watch, for we are the gift of 
the Night,” they chimed like a tinkling of far- 
off crystal bells. 

Then lulled by the singing starry night the 
peacock drowsily sank to rest, and slept till the 
Sun-god rose in the East. 

“What a wondrous charm,” he cried to the 
fleeing night, “you have lent to that dull brown 
bird!” 

Proudly the peacock preened his plumes and 


60 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


mirrored himself in the little lake. But faithful 
still to his service of love, he guarded the nest- 
ing dove, till her nestlings’ beaks chipped 
through their shells. And whenever the Ser- 
pent came prowling around, he fled in fear from 
the countless eyes that gleamed on the peacock’s 
train. 

When the fledglings grew strong for the 
flight to the great King’s court, the dove and the 
peacock set forth. 

Solomon greeted the gorgeous bird and the 
gentle ring-dove’s brood with a wave of his 
golden wand. Then he stared at the peacock’s 
glory. 

“Such a beauteous bird will want to shine in a 
nobler sphere,” spoke the King half mockingly, 
“you’re quite too fine, I suppose, to be willing to 
watch in a sheltered grove away from the 
court.” 

But the peacock stepped boldly into the circle 
of emerald grass and raised his burnished train, 
fan-shaped in the Sun. 

“Lord,” he said, “my beauty I won in my 
service of love. Grant that I may forever serve 
the Dove.” 

The whole court applauded. 


THE PEACOCK’S TAIL 


61 


The ring-dove quickly fluttered to his side be- 
fore the King could speak. 

“But, Lord,” she implored, “whether or not he 
remains by my side, leave him his shimmering 
crest and plumes, and those starry eyes on his 
train.” 

“Those gorgeous plumes do not match his 
strident cry,” protested the King. “If I grant 
your request, I suppose I must change the Pea- 
cock’s voice too.” 

And the wise King paused for the peacock’s 
reply. 

The beautiful bird ruffled his breast and his 
crest till they shimmered in the golden light like 
the sheen of sun-kissed pools. 

“Nay, Lord,” he exclaimed, “If you change 
my cry I might not be able to drive the Ser- 
pent away. I’d rather you gave me back the 
unlovely brown garb I used to wear.” 

“Wisely chosen,” the great King cried with 
delight. Then he glanced from the gentle dove 
to the peacock at her side, and said: “But 
nevertheless as long as you choose to serve the 
dove you shall wear the gifts you have won by 
love, and keep your cry as well.” 

And ever since the long ago when the old. 


62 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


old world was so very young, the peacock has 
flaunted his beautiful plumes and guarded the 
dove. The Serpent still flees from those count- 
less eyes gleaming upon his train, gift of love 
and service. 


WHY THE CROW’S FEATHERS ARE 
BLACK 


O NCE upon a time in the long, long ago 
when the old, old world was a very young 
world indeed, in the early year a mantle of 
brown clad the trees and the shrubs, gem- 
studded with tiny green buds. 

Softly the Sun blinked through a dimming 
haze of gray, quickening the pulse of the slum- 
brous earth. 

Solomon sat on his throne of gold, but no 
lustre gleamed in his long fair curls, nor shone 
from his crown and his wand. Lazily the motes 
drifted in the shaft of light that fell on its 
rounded ball from the mist-clad sky. 

The great King glanced at the hollowed 
stone, a stone of white, yet curiously black, then 
changing white again, that lay in the circle of 
sleeping grass and unseen daisies awaiting the 
call of the Spring. 

“Lord,” spoke the motes, “the Stone of 
Transformation is changing black and white. 
63 


64 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


Spring calls for release, and the grim frost belt, 
that has gripped the earth yields to the warmth 
of the Sun.” 

“True,” replied Solomon, “flower and leaf 
steal from its black hold. Soon the light will 
unseal the frozen Pool of Life.” 

“And release the captive Water of Joy that 
wells from its depths when the Sun is high,” 
sang the breeze. 

“In the warm strong light the fruit will ripen 
on the Tree of Content that grows by the side 
of the Pool of Life,” babbled the brook. 
“Without its shade the Pool could no longer 
bring delight to the heart of Man, and all liv- 
ing things.” 

“Until the Light-lord draws up the misty 
column of its magic drops, transforming Win- 
ter’s black sway to Spring’s white blossoming, 
the Stone will keep changing black and white,” 
warned the motes. 

“But swift is his course and the trees are tall 
that circle the Pool,” rippled the brook, “and 
he may not linger in the fluted caves where the 
Water flows.” 

“Aye,” spoke Solomon, “so the Stone must be 
filled and placed in the path of his golden heart 


THE CROW’S FEATHERS 


65 


for one whole day when Spring first calls to the 
sleeping earth.” 

“But who may go to the hidden Pool?” sighed 
the breeze, “not even I have found the way.” 

“That none may know save the spotless Mes- 
senger of the Sun, lest some wanton hand pluck 
the Fruit and wither the Tree,” whispered the 
motes. 

“If that should happen. Content would 
flee from many a heart, and the Storm-king’s 
clouds dispute Summer’s sway,” rustled the 
oak. 

Solomon glanced up at the stately tree. 
High in its bare branches perched a snow-white 
crow. 

“The Bird of the Sun,” exclaimed the King. 
“The hour is come.” 

The crow swept down on wide spread wings, 
silver-gleaming in the shadowed light. 

“Lord,” he cried, “I have come for the Stone. 
Bid me set forth for the Pool of Life.” 

“Be secret and swift on the way,” counselled 
the King, “for the Serpent is prowling by 
meadow and fen.” 

“Lord,” proudly replied the crow, “my flight 
is straight with no waste of curves. How can 


66 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


he find a path so sure in the undergrowth as 
mine through the air.” 

Solomon gazed at the spotless crow. “Great 
is your pride, and with every right. But do not 
forget,” he said, “the Serpent is wise and black 
is his heart, oh. Bird of the Sun.” 

“The Frost King’s mantle is blacker far than 
the Serpent’s heart or his coils,” replied the 
crow, “but even he must yield to the Sun.” 

The wise King sighed as he glanced from the 
changing stone to the cloud-veiled sky. 

“Not all the year,” he replied. “Only at 
noon in the early Spring does his heat suffice 
to drive the shadows from the Pool of Life.” 

“And beware!” cautioned the drifting motes, 
“for the Stone must be white as your spotless 
crest when you plunge in the Pool. If some 
passing shadow change it black, it will stain the 
Water of Joy.” 

“The Sun rides high when he strikes through 
the circling trees and chases the clouds from the 
sky,” returned the crow. 

“Yet you must take care,” interrupted the 
King. “The Pool will glow in the fierce noon 
glare. Seek the cooling depths by the Tree of 
Content lest you lose the Stone.” 


THE CROW’S FEATHERS 


67 


“Lord, I will not forget,” said the crow. 

“Then speed away,” smiled Solomon, “but 
guard well the precious drops that shall send 
the frost to its long repose, for you may not go 
twice in the Spring of the year to the Pool of 
Life.” 

With the stone in his beak the crow rose high 
in the ambered paleness of the sky. 

Swiftly he flew all day and night, past tree- 
grown plains ribboned with blue rivers, and 
brown, down-rushing cataracts that seethed 
white in deep pools, to the far-off mountain 
lands. 

He never paused till he heard the voices of 
the whispering cypresses and lace-fringed pines, 
sea-green, sewn with fragrant cones ringed 
crovvm-like on the tallest peak. 

“Here wells the Pool of Life,” they called in 
pleasant voices. 

The crow poised high, flashing white against 
the dark sky, rose-shafted in the east with the 
coming dawn. Then his broad wings beat 
downward through the air with rushing strokes 
that dulled the sound of rattling twigs beneath 
slim gliding coils. 

“Ho ho! Bird of the Sun,” mocked the Ser- 


68 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


pent’s hiss, have shown me the path to the 
Pool of Life.” 

“Ah me!” rustled the Tree of Content, “ah 
me, I fear!” 

“Wicked Crow,” replied the shimmering 
spray, “I wish you had never come.” 

“You foolish bird to travel by night,” echoed 
the voice of the fluted caves, “don’t you know 
that only the day can outshine the gleam of your 
sun-kissed crest?” 

“Ho ho! How it sparkled in the gloom!” 
mocked the Serpent again. 

The weary crow ruffled his plumes indig- 
nantly. 

“A fine greeting when I’ve traveled so far 
to serve the Sun!” he exclaimed. “I did my 
best. I came without rest. I’m not to blame 
if the Serpent’s course is swift as my flight.” 

“You were so vain of your broad strong 
wings, you never thought of your flashing crest. 
Without its gleam the Serpent could never have 
found the way,” reproached the whispering 
pines. 

“The King and the Sun gave me no hint,” 
sulked the crow. “Am I to be wiser than tihey?” 

“Hush!” quivered all the voices in haste. 


THE CROW’S FEATHERS 


69 


“The King bade you be secret as well as swift.” 

“Had your love been as great as your pride 
you need not have failed in your task,” sighed 
the Tree of Content. 

“Love!” retorted the crow in a rage. “You 
ungrateful things! Do you think I am pleased 
that the Serpent followed my^ trail? But even 
so, I have not failed.” 

“You’ll soon find you have, if he blights the 
Tree,” cried the spray. 

“Set your own wits to foil him then, since you 
think me so stupid. I’m weary and mean to 
rest. Good night!” cried the crow; then flew 
up into a fragrant pine where the lacy fringe 
had tangled into a nest. 

“Come back,” called the voices. “You must 
guard the Tree. We may not stir from our 
places.” 

“Xot I,” sneered the crow, “you’ve been 
rather too critical if you meant to do nothing 
but wait while I work. Good night!” And 
he settled down in the nest. 

The Serpent stole from the undergrowth, his 
black polished body coiling round and round the 
poor trembling Tree. 

“Wake, Bird of the Sun!” cried the voices. 


70 


FABLES IN FEATHEBS 


“Good night,” repeated the crow. 

The voices called and begged and sighed, but 
the crow only tucked his head further under his 
wing and fell asleep. 

Just as the gold-tipped shaft of dawn rose 
high in the sky, the Serpent’s great head shot 
forward, and he snatched the fruit from the 
spreading bough that hung low over the Pool. 

“Oh!” wailed the Tree, “he has stolen my 
heart.” 

The voices rose and fell on the breeze but the 
crow slept on. The Serpent still coiled round 
the stricken Tree with its withered bough when 
the noontide Sun fell on the troubled Pool. 

“Ho ho! it is time,” he hissed as the crow 
fluttered out of the tangled nest 

The sun-bird poised on the fragrant pine with 
the stone in his beak and prepared for his 
plunge. 

“Wait!” cried the spray. “The Serpent has 
stolen the fruit from the Tree of Content!” 

“You wouldn’t watch,” quivered the leaves, 
“so he blighted the bough that shaded the Pool.” 

“Beware! Take care what you do,” echoed 
the voice of the fluted caves. “You have failed 
in your task this year,” 




THE CROW’S FEATHERS 


71 


The crow in his anger and pride gave no heed 
to their warning. Scornfully spreading his 
wings, he circled down. As he plunged in the 
Pool a shadow fell on the stone in his beak, 
whei'e the Serpent’s head hung swaying low 
upon the leafless bough. 

The waters bubbled and seethed as the crow 
plunged in, scorching him with the fearful heat 
of the noontide Sun. In his pain he cried out, 
and dropped the stone as he struggled up into 
the air. 

“Just look at yourself!” the Serpent hissed. 

The crow perched at the water’s edge on a 
spreading cypress bough. 

“Why, what is this?” he cried in amaze, for 
the Pool and his feathers were black as night. 

“My shadow fell on the changing Stone. 
Your downward rush stained the waters black, 
and your snow-white plumes as well,” scoffed the 
Serpent as he glided away. 

“The Stone will turn white in the golden 
light. ’Twill clear the Pool and change my 
color again,” called the crow, but the Serpent 
was gone. 

“You dropped the Stone in your fright,” 
whispered the pines. 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


“I’ll fetch it back,” retorted the crow cheerily. 

“You cannot dive into the waters now. The 
Tree of Content is withered, and without its 
shade they are too hot,” said the voice of the 
fluted caves. 

“I’ll wait till dusk,” suggested the crow, half 
dismayed. 

“That is too late,” replied the spray, “only 
the Water of Joy can find a way back from the 
depths where the Stone will sink with the falling 
light.” 

The golden rays shimmered angrily around 
the crow. 

“How can the Sun gladden the earth with the 
magic drops?” they asked. “He must draw 
them up now in his hasty course from the tar- 
nished Pool, and the clouds will steal them be- 
fore they can reach his heart.” 

“Faithless messenger!” scolded the motes. 
“You will always be an emblem of woe, black as 
the evil you’ve wrought.” 

The frightened crow at these words flew 
straight up the shaft of golden light, close to 
the heart of the Sun. 

“Lord of Light,” he implored, “forgive me 
and turn my plumes white as they were before.” 


THE CROW’S FEATHERS 


73 


“That I cannot,” replied the Sun. “With- 
out the Stone of Transformation white must 
ever be white, and blaek will always stay black, 
and the clouds will gather in summer skies.” 

All day long the unhappy erow followed that 
shaft of light with his plea for help. But when 
the Sun sank in the western sky his feathers 
were still as blaek as jet. In a panic of fear 
as he thought of the great King’s wrath, he 
fluttered down to the laee-fringed pines, but 
they bade him be off on his way. 

And so in the days of the long ago when the 
old, old world was so very young, the crow flew 
mournfully down from the Sun. Black he was 
then as he sped with his tale of woe to the 
circle of emerald grass, and blaek he remains 
while the world grows steadily older. 


HOW THE MOCKING BIRD GOT HIS 
NAME 


O NCE upon a time in the long, long ago 
when the old, old world was a very young 
world indeed, the languor of midsummer’s heat 
stole deep in the honeysuckle’s cream-gold 
heart. The scented breeze, fragrant with pale 
purple memories of the wistaria’s vanished 
glory, fanned the trailing arbutus and scarlet 
trumpet vines; and full-petalled roses clustered 
in a joyous riot of color. 

Solomon sat on his throne of gold alone in 
the circle of emerald grass ringed by the sway- 
ing daisies. 

High in the trees the songbirds trilled their 
wonderful melodies. The sun-rays gleamed in 
a golden shaft that veined each leaf and lined 
its green with a shimmering sheaf. They show- 
ered down on the silver brook, and jeweled its 
ripples with a diamond net as they sparkled and 
danced past the moss-grown bank. 

“To-day as I rushed from my mountain home 

74 


THE MOCKING BIRD 


75 


in the early dawn, the crescent Moon was climb- 
ing the starry ladder of the sky,” sang the 
brook. “I caught her gleam in Night’s deep 
cave from a snowy peak.” 

“The midsummer Moon,” mused the wise 
King, and thoughtfully nodded his head in 
pleasant reverie. 

Then he waved his wand from right to left 
and left to right again till its rounded ball 
blazed golden-red. 

At the call of the light the birds came flock- 
ing from far and near to the great King’s 
court. 

The hawk, and the dove, and the chickadee 
waited without the daisy ring, with the robin, 
the redwing, and the whip-poor-will. The gold- 
finch was there and a certain brown bird with 
breast and tail of glistening white who had 
never been given a name. 

“The Flowers of Speech will bloom to-night,” 
spoke Solomon. “They unfold their petals once 
a year for a single night when the midsummer’s 
Moon first shines.” 

“They fade with the morning light,” called 
the brook. 

“You must go to the glade in the silent wood 


76 


FABLES m FEATHEBS 


where the blossoms grow, and gather them all, 
each bird one,” the wise King said. 

“There is an emblem for every one, bird, 
squirrel, and bee, and all living creatures under 
the Sun in their flowery hearts,” rustled the oak. 

“Unless I weave them in a garland tonight 
I cannot work the magic spell,” resumed the 
King. “I must sleep with them on my brow 
if I would understand the language of all in 
my realm.” 

“If a single Flower be missing, the meaning 
of some speech will be forever hidden,” cau- 
tioned the drifting motes in the golden beam 
that shone on Solomon’s ball-tipped wand. 

“The blossoms are every one alike, with their 
secret emblem hidden from sight. You cannot 
tell which is which,” nodded the daisies. 

“If you should lose one it might be your 
own,” said Solomon, “so beware, for I never 
again could understand a word you said.” 

And he waved his wand again, from right to 
left and left to right, for the birds to set ofl* 
on their quest. 

“Killic,” cried the hawk, “follow me. I know 
the path through the silent woods.” 

The trees grew taU in the silent woods, vine- 


THE MOCKING BIRD 7t 

clad with trailing tendrils. The ivy circled the 
oak-tree trunks with its glossy leaves, and rust- 
red pools gleamed ruddily in the wonderland 
of varying green. A thicket of shrubs tangled 
the edge so that none might pass save by the 
path. No sound was heard in the silent wood 
if one went astray to speed him through its 
maze. 

Vague, cool, and strange, the path led straight 
to the hidden glade. Narrow and low it was, 
with no way to the sky through its lattice of 
dancing leaves that twined shadowy chains in 
the summer breeze. 

But the birds flew merrily along with no 
thought of harm. They had not seen the slim, 
polished, black coils of the Serpent swiftly glid- 
ing among the ferns, keeping silent pace with 
their progress. 

The crescent Moon was threading the sky 
with her slender hoop when the hawk led the 
birds to the open glade. 

“Welcome,” rippled a silvery voice, and a 
truent spring sent a shiver of crystal over the 
moss. 

“Cherolee,” cried the redwing, “the dew is 
scattering pearls on the roses and eglantine.” 


78 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


And he settled close to a rose and drank from 
its scented cup. 

“Killic,” cried the hawk, “this is the hour 
when the Flowers bloom.” 

“Kill-deer! Kill-deer!” called his cousin the 
sparrow-hawk. “See those waxen buds by the 
spring.” 

Ivory-tinted, with rosy veins, they spread 
their petals one by one till full-blossomed and 
star-shaped they glistened with a sheen like that 
of the Moon on a fretwork of cobwebs. The 
birds fluttered around them. 

“They are the Flowers of Speech,” chirped 
the robin. 

The nameless brown bird fluttered gaily 
around the waxen cups. 

“There’s a bird too many and a Flower too 
few,” he said, “one of us will have nothing to 
carry back to the king.” 

“Killic! that will be you,” decided the hawk, 
“since you have no name you cannot expect to 
share honors with us.” 

“If I have no name it is only because I can 
mimic all your calls with my wonderful throat,” 
retorted the brown bird, “the King could never 
decide just what to call me.” 


THE MOCKING BIRD 79 

“Cherolee! say no more,” called the redwing. 
“You can carry my Flower.” 

“Ho ho! What matters a Flower more or 
less when you’ll all be missing at Solomon’s 
court?” hissed a voice. And two wicked eyes 
shone in the gloom of the path where the Ser- 
pent lay coiled. 

“We’ll fly high over your head,” cried the 
hawk. “While you are climbing the trees to 
reach us we’ll be safely past.” 

“Here where the trees arch high you may,” 
replied the Serpent, “but the branches droop 
low at the edge of the wood.” 

“If Sir Serpent coils there he can strike each 
bird as you pass,” warned the spring, “so be- 
ware!” 

“We’ll beat through the thicket on either side 
of the path,” cooed the dove. 

“ ’Twill take you too long. The Flowers 
would be faded before you came to the great 
King’s court. Ho ho! You’ll And me wait- 
ing,” mocked the Serpent as he glided away. 

The birds fluttered close to the crystal spring 
at the Serpent’s words. 

“The King will not weave his garland to- 
night, I fear,” sighed the dove. 


80 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


“It’s quite as bad to be dumb as dead,” ex- 
claimed the chickadee. “We must all rush 
down together and force our way past him. 
There’s always a chance that some may escape, 
and save the right Flower at that.” 

“Cherolee!” cried the redwing, “I wish we 
were out of the woods!” 

The nameless brown bird had listened in si- 
lence, still hurt at the hawk’s slighting words. 
But he was a generous, friendly little soul, and 
the redwing’s plaint reminded him of the little 
bird’s friendly offer. 

“Leave it to me, I have a plan. We’ll out- 
wit Sir Serpent with his mocking laugh by a 
clever trick,” he said, and whispered softly to 
each bird in turn. 

“It’s well there is a Flower too few,” chuckled 
that nameless brown bird. “Come, let us be 
off.” 

The birds plucked the blossoms, each bird one, 
then, flying high, they entered the path. Once 
in its gloom they stole along close to the leafy 
arch overhead. 

Just as they came to the edge of the wood 
the moonlight fell on the Serpent’s silver- 
ringed coils. 


THE MOCKING BIRD 


81 


Silently the birds perched in the trees where 
the path opened towards the meadows beyond 
the woods. 

“Kill-deer! Kill-deer!” shrieked the sparrow- 
hawk from the thicket to the right. 

Then “Killic!” and “Cherolee!” echoed on 
from the woods. The Serpent reared his great 
head angrily. 

“I’ll trap you all,” he cried, then paused in 
amaze. Not a bird was in sight. 

“Cherolee!” repeated a voice a little way off, 
and “Phoebe!” answered the chickadee. 

“You’re trying the thicket,” hissed the Ser- 
pent, “you’ll never get through — I shall see to 
that, at any rate.” 

“Killic! Killic!” faintly sounded the hawk. 

“I can’t get them all but I may trap a few,” 
thought the Serpent. 

“Coo, coo,” whispered the dove from the 
leaves. 

“There are none to be seen in the path, that’s 
clear,” hissed the Serpent, and glided into the 
thicket. 

But swift as he sped towards the dove’s sweet 
call, the birds fluttered down from the trees that 
arched the narrow path. One by one through 


82 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


the opening they flew, and sped towards the 
great King’s court. 

At the rustling of wings the Serpent turned, 
but a chorus of calls sounded close in the thicket 
beside h im . 

“ Cherolee ! Whip-poor-will !” 

The Serpent plunged into the undergrowth. 

“Killic! Killic!” And he darted after the 
hawk. 

“Chirp, chirp!” cried the robin. He climbed 
the tree but the bird had fled. 

All night long the Serpent searched in the 
silent wood, led on by the calls. 

When the day shot its quiver of gold and blue 
through the dancing leaves the Serpent came 
gliding down the path. 

“I’ve cheated ye! I’ve cheated ye!” came the 
bullflnch’s call high in the trees. 

“Cheated me! You silly bird!” hissed the 
Serpent angrily. “The Flowers are faded by 
now, so the others may go. But you shall pay 
for that mocking cry.” 

The nameless brown bird flew out from the 
leaves, just as the Serpent’s head shot high in 
the tree. 

“Ho-ho! Ho-ho!” laughed the bird, “the 



THE NAMELESS BROWN BIRD FLEW OUT FROM THE LEAVES. 



THE MOCKING BIRD 


83 


others went free while the Moon was high! 
Don’t you know all these calls were stored in 
my throat? Ho-ho! Ho-ho!” 

And the little brown bird sped away through 
the opening boughs at the edge of the wood. 

High in the oak that grew near the silver 
brook the nameless brown bird spied the hawk. 

“Did you all come safely to Solomon’s 
court?” he cried as he circled down from the 
sky. 

“Killic!” replied the hawk. “You wonderful 
bird! The King slept in his garland, but I 
feared you were lost.” 

“Ho-ho! Ho-ho! Not I,” mocked the little 
brown bird. “I left Sir Serpent ashamed in 
the woods for I’ve stolen his laugh. Ho-ho! 
Ho-ho!” 

Solomon welcomed the nameless brown bird 
with a smile as he fluttered into the velvety cir- 
cle of emerald grass. 

“I’ve found you a name at last cried the 
King. “Mocking bird!” 

“Oh joy!” carolled the little bird and in his 
delight launched into the air with a burst of 
trills. 

His whole soul thrilled into melody. Quiver- 


84 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


ing and fluttering in the golden light he floated 
in an ecstaey of delight, rising and falling with 
the delicious notes, then swept down at last on 
the scale of his song to the great King’s feet. 

“Mocking bird,” spoke Solomon, “what won- 
derful trills! Henceforth, as a gift to match 
the name, you shall always be able to sing on 
the wing.” 

So when the old, old world was a very young 
world indeed, the mocking bird won a name from 
the King. He is known by it now, though the 
world has grown old, and a mocking bird he’ll 
always he till the world grows so old it cannot 
grow any older. 


now THE PARROT CAME TO WEAR 
A HOOKED BEAK 


O NCE upon a time in the long, long ago 
when the old, old world was a very young 
world indeed, the Moon set the meadows and 
woods a-quiver with shimmering silver. The 
dancing beams laced the roses and pomegran- 
ates that circled the great King’s palace with a 
fretwork of sheen, then stole through the case- 
ment of purest gold where Solomon sat. 

“Lord,” they cried, “why is the Nightingale 
silent? She has always sung to the first Spring 
Moon, but this year she has kept to her nest.” 

“Truly,” spoke Solomon, “such nights as 
these her song should thrill with delight.” 
Then forth from his palace went the wise King 
past the tall pomegranates and fragrant roses 
to the grove where the nightingale nested. 

“Have you forgotten the trills I love so. 
Nightingale?” questioned the King. 

“Lord,” she replied, “only to-day my nestlings’ 
85 


86 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


beaks chipped through the shell of my eggs. I 
have not been yet to the Tree-that-Sings.” 

A parrot housed in a near-by tree — ^the crim- 
son-tailed grandfather of parrots of every hue 
— with a straight strong beak, as parrots had in 
the long ago, fetched his head from under his 
wing and fluttered out on a bough. 

“Lord,” he croaked as he settled himself in a 
pompous way, “if you would hear trills, just 
listen to mine!” And he straightway began to 
sing in a quivering strident voice, up and down, 
till his breath gave out. 

“Ah ha 1 Oh ho !” laughed the evening breeze. 
“Oh ho! Ah ha!” rustled the leaves. And 
“Ha ha ha!” the King chimed in. 

“Do you think that is anything like our bird 
of the thousand tongues?” asked the leaves. 
“Oh ho! Ah ha!” 

The parrot ruffled his plumes with a very dis- 
dainful fluff. “I am wise with the wisdom of 
ages to come — ” he began. 

“’Tis wisdom to know what one has not,” in- 
terrupted the King. “ ’Tis the magic voice 
makes melody. Friend Parrot. A musical mar- 
vel I fear you will never be.” 

The parrot cocked his head on the side with a 


THE PARROT’S HOOKED BEAK 8T 


haughty stare, then contemptuously turned his 
back on the King. 

“I could not trill as I do, if I did not go to 
the Tree-that-Sings,” the nightingale sooth- 
ingly said. 

“I know the Tree,” whispered the breeze. 
“It grows in a moss-spread glade where lilies 
and purple-tipped iris blossoms are massed in a 
scented tangle.” 

“But why must you go to the Tree, Nightin- 
gale?” asked the leaves. 

“The soul of the Tree dwells in the hollow 
where the branches spread,” answered the bird 
of moon-lit songs, “there the springtide sap 
bubbles up, but soon it cloys in an amber gum, 
sealing the song within the bark for the rest of 
the year.” 

“Then how do you learn your exquisite song?” 
questioned the King, while the others awaited the 
answer. 

“Each year I bathe in the gum while it’s soft, 
filling my feathers with every drop, till none re- 
main to harden over the Soul of the Tree,” ex- 
plained the nightingale. 

“ ’Tis a piece of unparalleled luck I am here. 
I’ll go at once to the Tree. Then we’ll see!” 


88 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


the parrot announced to himself — and missed 
the nightingale’s last remark. 

“The springtide sap is the voice of the Tree,” 
the nightingale said. “Only so long as the am- 
ber gum stains my feathers this reddish brown 
will the song of the Tree swell in my throat.” 

A vibrant hiss stirred the evening breeze, and 
the silver rings of the Serpent’s black polished 
coils slipped swiftly past. 

“Beware!” cautioned Solomon, “keep your 
secret from the Serpent if you would continue 
to sing.” 

“Else we must be content with the parrot’s 
trills,” rustled the leaves. 

“Ah ha! Oh ho! Ha ha ha!” laughed the 
breeze and the King as they thought of those 
trills. 

“He laughs best who laughs last,” sagely 
commented the parrot as he clambered head- 
first down the trunk of his tree. 

“What a pompous strut!” mocked a voice, and 
the silver rings of the Serpent flashed again in 
the gloom as the parrot stalked off. 

“Wisdom, Friend Serpent, is seen in a slow- 
ness to speak. Ivnow that my dignified walk is 
due to my toes. I’ve two straight before on each 


THE PARROT’S HOOKED BEAK 89 


claw, and two just behind, to conform to the 
law of duality — a thing that no other bird does,” 
the parrot calmly retorted. 

“Surely your tracks are like no other bird’s,” 
admitted the Serpent, then glided away. 

“Where are you going, oh Bird of Wisdom?” 
asked Solomon. 

“That’s my secret,” replied the parrot, “and 
my secrets I keep — something it takes a thou- 
sand years’ practise to learn.” 

“Boaster! You’re not so old, nor I, nor the 
world,” laughed the King. “I prefer the wit 
the Nightingale shows in learning to trill.” 

“I know a trick worth two of that,” the parrot 
cried. Then he strutted away through the moon- 
bright grove to the meadows beyond. High in 
the star-lit sky two crows were flying along in 
company. 

“I’ll join them,” the parrot exclaimed. 
“They’ll be glad of my wisdom to guide their 
flight.” 

Up through the air he shot, but the crows 
swept right and left, frightened by the flash of 
that crimson tail. 

“No loss hut it brings some gain,” the parrot 
observed to himself. “Now I need not tell them 


90 FABLES IN FEATHERS 

of the songs to be learned by a simple gum- 
bath.” 

When the Moon was still high the parrot came 
to the moss-spread glade. Beyond its broad 
clearing the lilies and purple-tipped iris blos- 
soms drowsily nodded. 

“Caution,” the parrot informed the Moon, as 
he circled down to the ground, “is the kernel of 
Wisdom’s nut. Affairs may be ruined by too 
long a flight. Some meddlesome bird might see 
my tail in the star-bright sky and tell the King. 
He’d be sure to send the Nightingale along be- 
fore I’ve learned all the beautiful songs. I’ll 
walk.” 

Then, his right claw pompously set in the 
moss, left toe next, carefully toeing in, he step- 
ped across. But a sense of importance filled his 
soul, and with every step his weight came full 
on those two toes in front and the two behind. 

The grass grew tall at the lilies edge — waving 
and inviting. 

“The very thing for a nest,” the parrot cried, 
and his straight strong beak went busily root- 
ing and twisting and weaving. 

“Haste,” he observed as he settled down for 
the night in his grassy nest, “indicates a weak- 


THE PARROT’S HOOKED BEAK 91 


ness of purpose. I shall sleep before I go to 
the Tree.” 

Below as the parrot flew, slim black coils, sil- 
ver-ringed, had followed swiftly through 
meadow and glade. The Serpent paused at the 
edge of the glade. 

“Where is that crimson tail?” he hissed. 
“Alone I shall never find the Tree. I came too 
late to the Nightingale’s nest to hear where it 
grows.” 

His great head reared thoughtfully swaying. 
The Moon, shining down, lighted a path of curi- 
ous tracks in the moss. 

“The Parrot!” he hissed. “I’ll hide till he 
wakes among those ferns beyond the lilies. Then 
we shall see!” 

Just as he passed the fragrant growth a won- 
derful melody stirred the night breeze. 

“That must be the Tree-that-Sings,” thought 
the Serpent. “Only the Nightingale knows 
such trills. Ho-ho! I’ll silence the song that de- 
lights the King.” 

In the rose-grey dawn the parrot awoke and 
searched the sky with his goggled eyes. 

“Not a bird in sight,” he chuckled. “But I’d 
better be going. There’s no telhng how soon 


92 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


the Nightingale may come, and I still have the 
Tree to find.” 

Pie strutted through the lilies and iris-blossoms 
to the ferns beyond, where he paused on one claw 
with his head on the side. The wonderful sing- 
ing filled the early morn with its melody. 

“My ear has been trained to distinguish the 
meaning of sound,” the parrot wisely com- 
mented. “The Tree is found.” 

Led by the trills he set off briskly for the 
Tree. As he came close, a little grey squirrel 
hiding among the ferns beckoned with his bushy 
tail. 

“Hush!” whispered the squirrel, “Sir Serpent 
came in the night. We will feed his hunger, I 
fear, if he finds we are here.” 

The parrot erept in beside the squirrel, then 
cautiously peeped from under the leaves. The 
Tree grew taU with great gnarled roots twisting 
free from the earth. Above, where the branches 
spread, the Serpent’s great head poised ready 
to strike, with his slim coils circling the trunk 
half-way down to the ground. 

“I certainly cannot fly down to the ground, 
and just see what I’ll have to crawl over if I 
climb up,” the parrot reflected, and thoughtfully 


THE PARROT’S HOOKED BEAK 93 


scratched his head with one sharp claw till he 
made the down fly. 

“One of those roots reaches almost up to the 
hollow; perhaps you could climb over from 
there,” the squirrel suggested. “Then you’ll be 
safe, for where he is now the Serpent can only 
strike as you fly past him up the tree and into 
the gum.” 

“He’s not obliged to stay there,” scornfully 
replied the parrot. “If he sees me, don’t you 
suppose he’ll soon change his place?” 

“If you could only eat of the Serpent’s fat 
you’d know what to do,” sighed the squirrel. 
“I’ve heard it said that if any one dared he would 
always possess the secret of tongues and his 
guile as well.” 

“The very thing!” the parrot exclaimed. 
“That root just comes to his middle and he has 
eoiled so that to reach either the ground or the 
hollow he must drag his great length over the 
rough bark.” And he exeeuted a solemn dance, 
stopping at every step to stand on his head and 
laugh. “It helps the flow of ideas,” he kindly 
explained to the squirrel, as he backed from un- 
der the ferns with his crimson tail turned care- 
fully towards the Tree. 


94 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


“Do come back and keep quiet,” implored the 
terrified squirrel. 

“Faint heart never won amber gum bath,” 
sagely retorted the parrot. 

The Serpent stirred lazily, glancing down in 
amusement. 

“Ho ho !” he laughed, “Friend Parrot’s turned 
tail. He’s afraid.” And he thought no more 
of that crimson tail that was steadily coming 
nearer. 

With his tail going first, the parrot cautiously 
climbed the great gnarled root the squirrel had 
pointed out. Then like a lightning flash he 
whirled around, plunging his straight strong 
beak deep into those polished coils. 

The Serpent struggled to free himself, but the 
parrot’s claws were firmly gripped around the 
root. He could not move, and that straight 
strong beak, biting deeper and deeper, was the 
sharpest thing he had ever felt. 

“Stop pinching!” hissed the Serpent, “I’ll let 
you go free.” 

But the parrot never budged. The Serpent, 
writhing in pain, lashed out with his tail, sud- 
denly jerking the parrot’s claws from their hold. 
For an instant he clung to the silver-ringed coils. 




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THE PARROT’S HOOKED BEAK 95 


then fell flat on his back on the ground with a 
bit of the Serpent’s fat in his beak. 

“Ouch! Ouch!” groaned the Serpent as he 
started down after the venturesome bird. 
“o-u-c-H !” For that bit of fat had left a great 
hole in his coils. 

The parrot was up in a twinkling, and spread- 
ing his wings flew high in the Tree. 

“You’ll not drag that hole up over the bark 
again,” the parrot jeered, as the Serpent stopped 
with a pitiful groan halfway down. And he 
darted into the hollow. 

“Don’t be too sure,” hissed the Serpent. 
“Besides, I can reach you from here.” And his 
great head reared, with the poison fangs ready 
to strike. Then “Ouch!” he moaned unable to 
stir for with every step he found that hole in his 
coils. 

But his chill breath fell freezingly into the 
hollow. The parrot absorbed in the wonderful 
trills, gave no heed to the amber shell that was 
slowly closing around him. Again and again 
the Serpent breathed on the gum. Then pain- 
fully he crawled down the gnarled tree- trunk. 

“See if your wisdom will save you now. Friend 
Parrot,” he cried and crept away to his lair. 


96 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


Flis words were lost on the parrot, for the 
singing had grown louder and louder, but 
through the clear gum he saw the Serpent vanish 
among the ferns. 

“Now I can safely study these trills,” he cried. 

He listened intently at first but soon he joined 
in with the singing Tree. 

“Superb!” he exclaimed. “Really I am a 
genius, my first attempt’s a great success.” But 
whether it was his own voice or the Tree’s that 
pleased him so he never thought to discover. 

“ ’Tis folly to waste any more time here. 
There’s not the least fear the Nightingale will 
ever outsing me again,” he continued with glee, 
and tried to climb out. 

But he couldn’t break through that amber 
shell, though his straight strong beak plunged 
into it with a will. It simply caught fast in the 
sticky mass and made his plight worse than be- 
foi’e. Down he pulled, then pushed up, wrig- 
gling from side to side, till at last with a mighty 
tug that curved his beak in an ugly hook and al- 
most pulled out his upper jaw, he dragged down 
a bit of the gum. ’Twas no easy task with a 
broken jaw and a twisted beak to widen that tiny 
slit, but he worked away, till the Moon rode high 


THE PARROT’S HOOKED BEAK 97 


in the sky again. Then the troublesome gum 
suddenly split in half, and the parrot and shell 
clattered down to the ground. 

The Soul of the Tree sang joyfully at its re- 
lease, but little the parrot cared. He picked 
himself up with the squirrel’s aid, and together 
they tried to set his beak straight. Alas! In 
spite of their efforts the ugly hook remained. 

“It’s no use,” the parrot said at last, “I’ll have 
to wait till my jaws stop aching. Then surely 
the King will help me out when he hears how 
beautifully I’ve learned to trill.” 

The squirrel pitied the suffering parrot, and 
dipping his bushy tail in the dew on the ferns, 
he bathed the sore jaw, and bound it up with a 
blade of grass which he tied on the side in a flow- 
ing knot. 

“We’d better be going,” the parrot observed, 
“Sir Serpent might return. I don’t think it 
would be quite polite to remind him of that rip 
in his coils by remaining here.” 

“Wait till I clean your feathers; that sticky 
gum has stained them all brown,” said the squir- 
rel, and he brushed away till not a speck could be 
seen. 

Then they stole through the lilies and purple- 


98 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


tipped iris blossoms, crossed the moss-spread 
glade, and travelled away by meadow and wood 
to Solomon’s court. 

The sunbeams were dancing among the leaves 
when they came to the grove where the parrot 
housed. Gaily the motes swam in the shaft of 
light that fell from the magic wand of gold, for 
the King was abroad in the early morn. 

Loud and long he laughed when the parrot ap- 
peared with his head bound up in a blade of 
grass, and that ugly hooked beak pointing out in 
front, and louder still when he heard his tale of 
woe. 

“Just wait till you hear me sing,” the parrot 
exclaimed, and opened his swollen jaws. But 
what with the pain and the curve of his beak his 
trills were worse than before. 

“Ah ha! Oh ho!” rustled the breeze and the 
leaves. “And you’ve shown the Serpent the way 
to the Tree for that! Oh oh! Ah ha!” 

The nightingale peeped from her nest in dire 
dismay. 

“Why what have you done with the gum?” she 
asked. “Didn’t you hear me say that the 
springtide sap was the voice of the Tree, and 
only so long as I wore it’s brown stain would the 


THE PARROT’S HOOKED BEAK 99 


song swell in my throat? Oh dear! I wish you 
had stayed here. You’ve wasted the trills for a 
whole year.” 

“Ha ha ha!” laughed Solomon, “I fear you 
have only made trouble for all, but you really 
are such a comical sight I haven’t the heart to 
punish you more, although I shall certainly miss 
the Nightingale’s song this coming year.” 

The parrot greatly oif ended stole into his nest 
to nurse his pride and wounded jaw. When the 
beak was healed and the ache was gone he was 
somewhat relieved to find he could do what no 
other bird can, and that is to move his upper jaw. 

The nip he had of the Serpent’s fat taught 
him a knowledge of tongues which he always re- 
tained. But he certainly never was able to trill, 
though it always remained his ambition, for never 
again did the nightingale miss her early visit to 
the Tree-that- Sings. And the hooked beak he 
got in the long ago he has worn ever since. 


LOFC 


WHY THE JACKDAW HIDES EVERY- 
THING BRIGHT 


O NCE upon a time in the long, long ago 
when the old, old world was a very young 
world indeed, the Sun rose high through the per- 
fumed mists of an August dawn. 

The dancing beams slanted across broad 
meadows of buttercups hedged with fragrant 
thorn to the woodland depths, where they jew- 
elled the leaves of the clustering roses, and the 
darker shadows of the tall pomegranate trees 
that flowered scarlet around the King’s palace. 
Then through the opened casement they shot 
their shaft of radiance from the heart of the 
Sun to the clouded globe that lay by the side of 
the sleeping King. 

“Wake, Lord!” called the drifting motes, “the 
Moon yields this month to the yellow glory of 
the Sun. Low hung in the sky, in the twilight 
hour, she dons a mantle of gold, and waits for 
the master touch to open her radiant gates.” 
“Wake, Lord!” echoed the shimmering beams, 
100 


THE JACKDAW’S TRICKS 101 


“our work is done. The shell-tinted hlooms of 
the snow-clad boughs of apple and plum trees 
have ripened the fruit. We have wrought the 
Wonder Key.” 

Solomon rose from his slumber couch and took 
up the clouded globe. In the warm strong light 
it grew wondrously clear, flashing rainbow tints 
on a golden key prisoned within. 

“Then I must go to the Moon’s magic realm 
to renew my power to rule over the earth and all 
living things,” spoke the wise King. 

“Beware lest you wait till too late,” murmured 
the beams. “If by any mischance you fail to 
gather the milky sheen of the coming year for 
the Wonder Key you will not know the secrets of 
Life. Then you would lose your sway over the 
birds and the beasts and their brother, Man, and 
each would dwell apart.” 

“You must make haste,” cautioned the motes, 
“you may unlock the radiant gates only so long 
as the Moon is full, and to-morrow’s dawn her- 
alds the eve of her waning.” 

“True,” replied Solomon, “it is time to prepare 
the gifts I bestow on my subjects when I return 
from the magic realm.” 

The great King went to this treasure hall with 


102 FABLES IN FEATHERS 


the crystal globe in his hand, and opened the 
alabaster chests that were ranged along the walls. 
One by one he chose the gifts, wrapping them 
round with a filmy web of woven golden threads, 
then bore them off to his grass-grown court, 
ringed by the nodding daisies. 

On the opposite shore an elm tree grew. A 
mischievous jackdaw, nesting among its topmost 
branches, kept a curious watch as Solomon 
spread out the golden web and set the gifts 
upon it. 

“Those numerous packets merit a closer peep,” 
he exclaimed and, as curious as he could possibly 
be, flew straightway down from his nest and 
over the brook. 

He never saw the jewel-bright eyes that 
gleamed between the elm’s twisting roots, where 
the silver brook in its springtide rush had 
washed the moss from its clinging hold and left 
a secret lair. 

The jackdaw strutted gravely forward till he 
stood beside the King. 

“You need a helper. Lord, I see,” he observed 
with droll dignity. 

“Then it will not be you, little Jackdaw. I’ve 
heard it said you are rather too prone to play 


THE JACKDAW’S TRICKS 103 


pranks,” the wise King laughed, and stooped to 
place the crystal globe upon the golden web. 

“ ’Tis a pity. Lord,” the jackdaw cried, with 
no malice for the rebuff, “to shut up that glitter- 
ing key.” 

“I may not break the crystal sheaths,” the wise 
King spoke, “lest the Key be lost before it is 
needed to open the radiant gates. It must bathe 
all night in the Moon’s misty light, then the 
morrow’s setting Sun will release it for me.” 

“Oh, joy!” sang the scented breeze, “when you 
go down the milky lane to the rising Moon to 
open the gates of the magic realm, all living 
things will join in the brotherhood of Love, and 
promise to aid each other till the harvest Moon 
hangs low in the sky again.” 

“Aye,” spoke Solomon, “and these are the 
gifts that shall fit your needs when the Frost 
King reigns.” 

“Lord,” repeated the jackaw, “truly you need 
a helper.” 

“Since you are so anxious to serve,” the wise 
King said, “you may summon the birds and the 
bees and all my subjects to come to my court to- 
morrow.” 

But the jackdaw lingered on, standing first on 


104 FABLES IN FEATHERS 


one claw and then on the other, and bent a 
bright eye on the crystal globe. 

“Lord,” he reflectively murmured, “someone 
must guard the gifts, if you would find none 
mislaid when you return from the magic 
realm.” 

Solomon laughed aloud. “No, no. Sir Jack- 
daw,” he retorted as he mounted his golden 
throne. “I’ve too much care for the Wonder 
Key to risk any curious prying.” 

“Lord,” the jackdaw insisted, “you cannot 
watch all day and night and go to the Moon as 
well.” 

“That I know well,” assented the King. “So 
you must bring the Owl back to my court when 
you return to-night. His cries are so sharp in 
the dark, he’ll be sure to see any prowler.” 

The jackdaw set forth on his mission with a 
discontented sigh, for his heart was bent on a 
closer peep at the crystal globe and the prisoned 
key. 

When the twilight fell he came scurrying back 
with the owl as the King had bidden. The par- 
rot came, too, for he lived far away and being of 
sociable habits he had no mind to journey alone. 

“Welcome, welcome!” the wise King ex- 


THE JACKDAW’S TRICKS 105 


claimed, “you have surely made haste to get here 
so soon.” 

“That,” the parrot responded, “is due to my 
counsel. I helped the Jackdaw to guide the 
Owl here while it was still light.” 

“I, Lord,” the jackdaw added, “was in a hurry 
because I thought you might wish to rest before 
it was dark.” 

“That was one for me, and two for yourself, I 
fear,” smiled Solomon. “You’re over-anxious 
to get me away while the Owl can’t see.” 

The jackdaw glanced saueily up at the King. 
Then, seeing he’d nothing to gain, he flew away 
in disgust to the old elm tree on the other side 
of the brook. 

The owl stood silently waiting, but the King 
gave no heed to his sullen mood. 

“Guard these treasures well,” he bade the 
sulky bird. “If any one enters the daisy eircle 
give three sharp calls. I will be here before the 
thief can escape.” 

Solomon rose from his throne of gold with 
these words, went to his palace in the woodland 
depths, cast himself on his slumber couch, and 
fell asleep. 

“Hoo-oo!” grumbled the owl. “I’m not al- 


108 FABLES IN FEATHEBS 


lowed to sleep by day and I’m set to watch by 
night.” 

“There’s a hollow stump at the edge of the 
wood,” tempted the parrot. “I’ll take your 
place.” 

“That you will not! Solomon’s wrath is 
worse by far than the lonely vigil,” the owl re- 
fused at first. 

“I’ll wake you before he comes,” the parrot 
caj oiled, until the owl finally yielded and settled 
himself in the hollowed stump the parrot had 
pointed out. 

“It is wisdom not to examine the gifts 
until I am sure there is no one near,” the parrot 
remarked when the owl had gone. Then he 
perched himself on the golden throne and tucked 
his right claw carefully under his downy breast. 

But his flight had been long and his watchful 
eyes were soon closed. 

The jackdaw, unable to sleep because of the 
parrot’s chatter, waited patiently with some sly 
notion that he might yet find a chance to inspect 
the crystal globe. 

So he spied the Serpent’s silver rings as he 
stole from the roots of the old elm tree and 
glided across the brook; saw the slim polished 


THE JACKDAW’S TRICKS 107 


coils slip past the pearl-petalled daisies and 
pause by the golden film. 

For an instant Sir Serpent’s great head hung 
swaying above the gifts, then the great fangs 
shot down and closed on the crystal sheath. 

Back to the old elm tree he came and stowed 
the shattered globe with the golden key beneath 
the twisting roots. 

“What a joke it would be to steal his loot,” 
the jackdaw chuckled with glee. 

Then cautiously down from his nest came the 
curious mischievous bird. He pryed and poked 
among the roots till a yellow gleam in the dark 
caught his eye. 

“The Wonder Key!” he exclaimed. “Sir Ser- 
pent has broken the sheath.” 

He picked it up in his beak and made his way 
up the tree, just as the Serpent returned with 
one of the gifts in his mouth. And one by one 
he brought them all to his hidden lair in the 
twisting roots beside the rippling brook. 

“The Serpent will surely come searching my 
nest when he misses the Key,” the jackdaw 
thought. “I must hide it somewhere else.” 

When the Serpent again crossed the brook, 
the jackdaw flew off to the woods, where he dug 


108 FABLES IN FEATHERS 


a hole in the ground. But in his delight at out- 
witting the thief he carelessly scratched the earth 
over the key, and never thought to mark the spot 
before he returned to his nest. 

With the dawn’s first shaft the parrot awoke, 
and saw with dismay that the gifts were gone. 
Only the golden film remained to show where 
Solomon had set them forth on the previous 
day. 

He hastily summoned the faithless owl, and 
together they racked their brains to devise some 
scheme to soothe the King’s wrath. 

“I’ve found a way,” the parrot exclaimed at 
last. “Friend Owl you must swear that you 
kept on watch all night.” 

“You persuaded me to sleep,” objected the 
owl, “I’ll not bear all the blame. You’re the 
culprit.” 

“You’ll very soon find that excuse won’t serve 
with the King,” the parrot scornfully sniffed. 
“He’ll simply say you had no right to disobey.” 

“Hoo-oo ! But we’ve got ourselves in a dread- 
ful plight,” wailed the owl. 

“I’ve thought out a plan to lay all the blame 
on the King, if only you’ll do what I say,” the 
parrot returned. 


THE JACKDAW’S TRICKS 109 


Before the owl could refuse, Solomon came 
from his palace of gold. The jackdaw flew down 
from the old elm tree; the birds and the beasts 
and their brother, Man, gathered around the 
daisy ring. The Serpent too crept from his 
lair in the twisting roots and joined them there. 

Solomon mounted his golden throne with a 
terrible frown when he saw the empty film. 
The owl quaked with fear, but the parrot 
stepped boldly forward. 

“Lord,” he spoke, “’tis your very own fault.” 

Solomon stared at the venturesome bird in 
angry amaze, but the parrot undaunted, con- 
tinued: 

“When you set the Owl to watch by night be- 
cause he could see in the dark, you wholly for- 
got he cannot see well in the light. At this 
time of year the Moon sheds a light as bright 
as day, which you also forgot. How could he 
tell the rusthng he heard was anything more 
than the summer breeze, if he could not see?” 

“That is just,” spoke the King, without 
thought of the parrot’s guilt, “and just it is, too, 
that I humble my pride to pay for my error.” 

The wise King turned on his throne of gold 
and cast his eyes beyond the ring of nodding 


110 FABLES IN FEATHERS 


daisies where the Serpent coiled, slim, polished 
and black. 

“Sir Serpent, the war you have waged on my 
subjects and me,” he spoke, “I’ll freely forgive, 
if you will restore the Wonder Key.” 

“Nay, Lord,” the Serpent replied, “it is ill to 
suspect me of theft. I came in all humility to 
ask pardon for past offences.” 

“Your reward shall be great, if you’ll set 
your wisdom to avert this loss,” the King im- 
plored. “The birds and the beasts will suffer 
much if they can no longei make known their 
wants.” 

“Long since I spent what wisdom I had in 
your service. Lord,” the Serpent meekly de- 
plored. 

The King sank back on his throne of gold 
with a sigh. Well he knew the Serpent’s du- 
plicity, but what could he do? And just as 
he gave a second sigh, the jackdaw strutted 
past the swaying daisies into the heart of the 
circle of grass. His bright beady eyes 
twinkled mischievously, and he gave his head 
a toss. 

“Lord, you’d have none of my help,” he 
chuckled saucily, “yet I alone know where to 


THE JACKDAW’S TRICKS 111 

find the Key which Sir Serpent thinks so cleverly 
hidden.” 

The Serpent hissed angrily, darting his great 
fangs forward. Solomon staj'^ed the venomous 
shaft with his golden ball-tipped wand. 

“Peace, Serpent!” he angrily commanded, and 
bade the jackdaw explain his meaning. 

The Serpent’s eyes gleamed angrily at the 
reproof, and he glided away to the secret lair 
while the jackdaw told of the midnight raid and 
the hidden gifts. 

“ ’Twill be death to whoever comes near,” he 
hissed as he coiled beneath the elm’s twisting 
roots. 

“In truth, your wisdom is spent,” mocked the 
jackdaw, mischievously pirouetting along the 
edge of the silver brook. “I left you the shat- 
tered globe to guard when I filched the Wonder 
Key.” 

The Serpent, in baffled rage, fled away to the 
forest depths while the jackdaw continued his 
prancing. 

“Stay your madcap whirl,” the wise King 
said, “and be off for the Wonder Key. You 
must bring it here before the twilight hour.” 

The jackdaw obediently flew off, leaving the 


112 FABLES IN FEATHERS 


birds and the beasts to search the hidden lair. 
One by one they brought forth the gifts and 
spread them out on the filmy web of woven 
golden threads. 

Hour by hour the great King sat with his sub- 
jects, silently waiting. And hour by hour the 
Sun climbed higher, then lower and lower sank, 
till the Moon’s pale disc gleamed dimly in the 
sky. But still no jackdaw came. 

The last warm rays lighted the way for a very 
disconsolate wanderer. 

“Lord,” cried the jackdaw — for he it was with 
all his jauntiness gone — “I cannot find the hole 
I dug. The Wonder Key is lost.” 

“Then with the setting Sun the brotherhood 
of all living things must end,” sighed Solomon. 
“The radiant gates will always stay closed till 
the Key is found again.” 

“But how shall I atone for my blunder?” 
mourned the crestfallen jackdaw. 

“Stupid! By finding the Key of course,” the 
parrot retorted contemptously. 

“But I have forgotten where I hid it,” the 
jackdaw began. 

“Then you must keep hiding everything bright 
you can find,” interrupted the King, “until some 


THE JACKDAW’S TRICKS 113 


day when you’re busy at that, you may remem- 
ber where you stowed the Wonder Key.” 

“But they’ll call me a thief,” the jackdaw pro- 
tested. 

“He who meddles in the affairs of others, 
even with good intentions, will surely make 
good in the best way he can,” spoke the 
wise King, “though he suffer himself for his 
prying.” 

As the great King spoke, the Sun sank into 
the black, crimson-shot vault that circled the 
earth. What more he said none save Man could 
understand. For he had not trod the milky path 
of the moonlight sheen to open the radiant gates 
of the magic realm. The birds twittered and 
chirped, the bees droned eagerly, the beasts 
joined in, but their meaning was lost to the 
King. So each was forced to go his way apart, 
into the world where once they had all been 
banded in Love’s brotherhood under Solomon’s 
magic sway. 

And so since the days of the long, long ago 
when the old, old world was so very young, the 
jackdaw keeps taking and hiding everything 
bright he can find. And, though he has earned 
the name of thief by his actions, he is so anxious 


114 


FABLES IN FEATHERS 


to mend his mischievous prank that he continues 
his way of taking and hiding, in the hope that 
he may some day find the Wonder Key again, to 
open the radiant gates and restore the universal 
brotherhood of Beast and Bird and Man. 



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